


Silent as the Grave

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s Romania, Alternate Universe, But like in a cozy-mystery way, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Gothic Romance, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Mostly it's a romance, Poison, Sorry Not Sorry, Supernatural Murder Mystery, Warning for abuse of mystery cliches, gothic horror, like a lot of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Aziraphale Ange, a location scout for Gray Productions, has found the perfect castle for his boss's new moving picture--an adaptation of Bram Stoker'sDracula. The trick will be convincing the dark, mysterious, and gorgeous Count Crowley to let them film there. Little does Aziraphale know, though, that getting in the door is the easy part.Haunted castles, centuries-old mysteries, and a love affair that defies the grave...
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 108
Kudos: 159
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/gifts).



> This fic is part of the Trickety-Boo 2020 Gift Exchange and is a gift for the absolutely lovely [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95/works), based on her prompt, "Also a big gothic horror fan, so anything with castles, trap doors and human beings being the truly scary things out there." I hope you like it, my dear! <333
> 
> Also, this story would NOT have been possible without my incredible beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works), who provided constant cheerleading, moral support, and ridiculously fast turnaround on phenomenal edits. I owe you big time, Allie!

_Romania, 1921_

Aziraphale looked up at the spooky old castle in Drumul Carului. The cobblestoned road that led to it wound through dark woods to a deep ravine, at which point it became a bridge that led to a perfectly massive double door. Turrets. The infernal thing had turrets. It was perfect. For once, Gabriel would be pleased.

Aziraphale ordered the driver to hurry. The light wouldn’t last much longer, and Aziraphale simply had to get some shots of the place before the sun slipped behind the Piatra Craiului mountains. He’d brought his brand new Nagel Vollenda pocket folding camera, and he knew this breathtaking vista was worthy of being its first subject.

Unfortunately, the closer they drew to the castle, the slower the car seemed to go.

“Is there a problem, my good man?” Aziraphale asked in broken Romanian.

The driver wouldn’t look at him, let alone answer. He just stared up at the stone edifice before them, looking even paler than when Aziraphale had mentioned his destination in the first place.

When they pulled up into the bailey, Aziraphale got out, but the driver did not.

“I say, are you coming?” Aziraphale asked, but the man shook his head tersely and wouldn’t look at the door. He mumbled a word that sounded like “blestemat” but damned if Aziraphale knew what that meant.

So Aziraphale ambled up to the giant oak door. No bell or any such modern thing, but there was a huge old-fashioned knocker. He raised the heavy, black metal ring, and let it fall. He could faintly hear the echo on the other side reverberating through what must be an enormous empty hall. He clutched his camera close as his excitement rose again. It was meant to be, he was certain. Now, if he could only convince the owner.

Aziraphale waited breathlessly for several long moments. Then he waited longer, breath returning. Then he waited longer, and his excitement began to wane. Until finally, he’d had enough of waiting, and he turned away to abandon the attempt—for that day, at least—when the hinges creaked behind him.

“Vă pot ajuta?” said a voice from the shadows just inside the door.

“Oh! Dear me,” Aziraphale said hurrying forward. “I do hope you are the owner of this lovely piece of property, I-I mean, castle. It’s quite…it’s quite something, isn’t it?” 

The man, who was in his early forties perhaps, had hair like a fire tornado with a hint of curl at the tips. He wore dark glasses, despite the shadowy interior, and his skin was paler than the driver’s. He was tall, carrying himself with an easy grace that said he was a man used to power. But none of that bothered Aziraphale. Aziraphale had to put up with being bossed around by Gabriel Gray on a daily basis. He was used to working with the…eccentricities of powerful men.

Aziraphale stuck his hand out towards the stranger, saying, “Beg pardon, let me start again. My name is Aziraphale Ange, and I am the location scout for Gray Productions.” When the man didn’t shake his hand, he took out his business card instead, handing it to the man, who took it without a word. It finally occurred to Aziraphale to wonder if he spoke English. He then chided himself for insensitivity. This was no way to ingratiate himself before asking for an enormous favor.

“Terribly sorry, er, do you…speak…?”

“French,” the man said. His voice was dark and seductive with just a hint of gravel underneath. If Aziraphale had been impressed before, he was downright intimidated now. No wonder the driver was nervous.

“You speak…French?” Aziraphale said, confused. Wouldn’t the man have pronounced it français if he were actually French?

“Enough to recognize that your last name means ‘angel,’” he said in perfectly fluent, if accented, English. He lifted Aziraphale’s business card as if to illustrate his point.

“Oh, yes. Yes, it does. My family immigrated from France in 1793, though we kept the name. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Aziraphale worried his bottom lip. He felt wrong-footed, as if he’d shown up to a dinner party wearing the wrong clothes. This man was nothing like he’d expected. He’d imagined an older, wealthy couple perhaps, or a marmish museum docent. The man in front of him was anything but marmish.

“I’m sorry, are you the actual owner of this house, or should I be speaking with someone else?”

The man sighed heavily. “I am her caretaker. I’m not sure anyone is capable of owning her.”

“Oh. I see,” Aziraphale said, though he didn’t really. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

“Crowley,” the man said, finally extending his hand. “Antonin J. Crowley.”

Aziraphale took his hand, ignoring the icy hot sensation that zinged up his arm at the touch. “Oh, thank you. I…well, as I mentioned, I am a location scout for a production company, and it’s my job to-to find filming locations.”

Crowley folded his arms and leaned against the door, as if settling in for Aziraphale’s practiced speech. It only threw Aziraphale off a little. Lord, but the man was beautiful. It was quite distracting.

“We’re producing an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and we are looking for a location that befits the gothic milieu and tenor. Your premises are just too perfect to pass up. You simply must consider letting us film here.”

“How do you know? You’ve never set foot in it.”

“I can just feel it. It has a majesty to it that would not only translate well to film, but would enhance the experience of the production overall. I would not set it anyplace else, if I could help it.”

“That is very flattering, I suppose. But what’s in it for me?”

“Money, of course. There is a healthy budget set aside for developing a project of this scope. I’m sure we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m sure we can,” Crowley said smoothly with a wry twist of lip. “But your money is of no use to me.”

“Of no use? What do you mean? Everyone needs money.”

“And yet, I do not.” He let the answer hang awkwardly in the air between them. 

“Then…what do you want for the privilege of filming our production here?” Aziraphale asked finally, his cheeks blazing. He’d never had someone turn down money before. He’d had to talk people down from insisting on outrageous sums of money, but never this.

“How long will the filming take?”

“Oh, about three weeks or so?”

“Well, then it is not a small thing, is it? Would rather put me out, I should think. Three weeks? That is a long time.”

“Honestly, most productions could take several months to film on location. We would do the majority of our scenes on set back in Los Angeles. We would mainly need your space for outdoor shots and perhaps a few hallway…” Aziraphale stopped himself, noticing Crowley’s widening smile. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I would do everything in my power to make it as painless for you as possible. We would of course stay in the village between—”

“That will not be necessary. You are welcome to stay here during filming, if I agree. I merely pointed out that I will need something of equal value in trade for such an imposition.”

“Yes, of course. I would be happy to offer you anything you ask within reason.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“I— What?”

“Have dinner with me. Tonight.”

“You want to have dinner with me? That’s it?”

Crowley straightened from where he’d leaned against the interior of the doorway, still smiling. Still dangerously gorgeous. Aziraphale began to be the slightest bit afraid. Not of Crowley, but of his own highly inappropriate reaction to him.

“Is that request ‘within reason’?” Crowley asked with a softly mocking tone.

“Y-yes, I suppose. I just can’t imagine—”

Crowley interrupted him with a gesture. “Send your driver on his way. One of my servants will take you back to your hotel afterward.”

Aziraphale fidgeted while he silently panicked at the realization that Crowley meant right then, that he wanted Aziraphale to stay for several more hours at least.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said finally, baffled at the turn of events, and went to talk to his driver. The man barely heard his explanation before he ducked his head back into his car and took off at a decent clip down the circle drive and out through the portcullis.

Aziraphale returned to where Crowley waited for him, his camera clutched in his grip. If he was lucky, he could sneak off and take a few interior snaps for Gabriel. The producer could not possibly find fault with Aziraphale’s choice of location this time. It was exactly as described in the source material. They’d never be able to replicate a set as authentic as this place. And if all the proprietor wanted was dinners with people, then perhaps they could afford to shoot the whole picture here.

Crowley gestured him inside. The second Aziraphale crossed the threshold, an intense shiver shook his spine from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. It was as if he’d been unexpectedly drenched with a bucket of water, except he was perfectly dry. He wondered at the sensation for a split second before his attention was arrested by the grandeur of the castle hall.

“Oh, good lord,” he breathed. “It’s glorious.” He spun in a small circle, taking in the sloping, gothic arches, the decorative masonry, the point-tipped, leaded-glass windows, the sweeping staircase circling the perimeter in a spiral of regal splendor.

“Do you like it?” Crowley asked.

“Like it?” Aziraphale said, still reeling from the awe. He left off basking in the resplendence of the hall to turn his gaze to his host. “Dear boy, the word ‘beautiful’ does not do it justice. I’m truly at a loss for words. How extraordinary that you live here and get to experience it every day.”

Crowley stared at him unspeaking, smile completely gone. He wasn’t frowning exactly either, but Aziraphale felt as if he’d said something amiss, and he regretted it at once. Perhaps he’d been a touch too extravagant in his praise? He hadn’t considered that it might make Crowley uncomfortable. Perhaps he ought to apologize.

He opened his mouth to do just that, when Crowley seemed to shake himself out of some altered state and turned on his heel to lead Aziraphale to an adjoining room.

Deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, Aziraphale followed obediently and without comment.

If anything, the dining room Crowley led him to was even more impressive than the hall. Art works from some master painter graced the walls, luring Aziraphale in with their pastoral vistas and romantic portraiture. Crowley wandered off while Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention. When he noticed, he worried that maybe he’d offended him after all before becoming unequivocally enamored of the next painting. They simply took his breath away. And he couldn’t help but wonder, with as many as there were, all clearly brought to life by the same brush, if Crowley himself weren’t the master artist. 

It was obvious now that Aziraphale had wandered into a trap set just for him. Gorgeous castle, gorgeous man, gorgeous art. The only thing that could net him more thoroughly was…

“I hope you are hungry,” Crowley said from the other side of the room.

Aziraphale turned at the words to see three servants transferring several expensive looking silver serving dishes from a delicate glass cart to the massive stone table in the center of the room. Twenty or so black, high-backed chairs punctuated the table, blocking most of Aziraphale’s view. But nothing blocked the smell wafting from the platters. Aziraphale’s mouth instantly watered, and he drifted as if on a cloud to the chair next to Crowley’s.

“How…?”

Crowley tilted his head, indicating one of the many narrow windows framing the burnt orange and sienna sky. “It was already time for supper. The food was nearly ready when you arrived anyway. No point in letting it go to waste.”

Aziraphale slid into his chair, which, while heavy and made of thick, black wood, was comfortably padded with a red velvet cushion riveted in place to the center of the seat.

“This is… This is extraordinary. This food, this ambience,” Aziraphale gestured to the lit candelabras interspersed throughout the room, “this…charming company,” he said and blushed. “I feel as if I owe you even more for this meal than I would for use of your castle.”

Crowley smiled, lifting a goblet of red wine to his lips and taking a sip before responding. 

“I am glad you approve,” he said finally.

Servants placed silver chargers on the table, one each in front of Crowley and Aziraphale, followed by wide shallow bowls of ebony and gold. Silverware with the most peculiar texture and shape, though clearly of a quality that Aziraphale wasn’t used to. This whole experience was so far removed from the glitzy grime of Los Angeles that he might as well be on the moon. 

The scent wafting from the soup course soon made him forget his wonder over the silverware. At a nod from his host, Aziraphale sipped a spoonful of the most amazing bouillabaisse he’d ever tasted, and he included his mother’s in that assessment. He couldn’t have helped the embarrassing noises of appreciation he made if he’d wanted to.

He set down his spoon and dabbed at his lips with the cloth napkin that had somehow appeared in his lap. The servants were quite adept at avoiding notice.

“My goodness. I believe the ability to speak cogently has quite left me. Your chef’s preparations are exquisite. I’m not sure I deserve such princely treatment.”

Crowley scoffed, waving off his comment. “It’s just soup, angel.”

The endearment speared straight through Aziraphale, leaving him tingling and lightheaded. Had Crowley just…had he just called him…? Then he remembered their earlier conversation wherein Crowley had noted that Aziraphale’s last name meant “angel” in French. That must be what he meant. What else could it possibly be? 

Aziraphale hid his astonishment by eating more soup, which now tasted bland in comparison to the idea he’d entertained, even for a moment, that Crowley had meant something else. What had gotten into him? He was here on business. And even if he weren’t, there was not a chance in Hell that a Grecian God like Crowley could possibly find portly, aging Aziraphale attractive. 

Gabriel had certainly made it clear that Aziraphale’s physique was the reason their relationship hadn’t worked in the end. Aziraphale had grown too…comfortable…for Gabriel’s tastes. So he’d ended their romantic relationship, he’d said, in favor of preserving their working one. And if Gabriel was a marble Adonis, beautiful and cold, Crowley was the living embodiment of that which the ancient sculptors had sought—in vain, apparently—to replicate. If Gabriel was too good for Aziraphale, then Crowley was further beyond his reach than the stars in the sky.

“You’ve gone quiet, angel. I hope the soup still pleases you.”

“Yes, of course. I apologize, dear boy, I was simply woolgathering. Your castle here is… Honestly, it takes my breath away. Are you sure you don’t want something else in exchange for our use of it? As I said, I will do everything in my power to make it seem that we are not even here, but I do not feel it’s appropriate to trespass on your good will for the price of simply keeping you company for an evening.”

“You underestimate the worth of your company,” Crowley said simply. “Try your wine.”

Aziraphale complied, making more embarrassing noises as the velvety texture slid over his pallet, plucking notes of dry plum, wild berry and spice. It was the most heavenly wine Aziraphale had ever drunk, and he was starting to wonder if he’d wandered into a dream. Were that the case, he prayed he’d never wake again.

“We have our own vines, of course,” Crowley said. “Our vintner is seventh generation.”

“Good lord,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at his lips again, just as the duck course was served. “I really must think of an entertaining anecdote or three to make this extravagance worth all your trouble.”

“No trouble. I’m curious about you.”

“About me?”

“I’ve never met an American.”

“Oh, I’m not American. I was born in England. I traveled with my…er, with Gabriel, that is…to California. The moving pictures are not yet taken off in England, you know. Most of the advances in film are happening in New York and California.”

“Your accent is difficult to place.”

“Yes, Gabriel wanted me to sound more American, especially when working. He believes my English accent is a detraction during negotiation.”

“That’s preposterous,” Crowley said, frowning severely. “While you are in my presence, I invite you to use your original accent, or any way of speaking you prefer.”

“That is very kind of you, to be sure,” Aziraphale said, allowing his Americanized vowels to relax into their native cadence.

“Do you like working for this man?”

Aziraphale suppressed a laugh. “‘Like’ is perhaps an overstatement. But the work is satisfying. I love spending time in beautiful settings. Though, I must say that you have quite ruined me, my dear.”

“How so?”

“How could any other setting compare to this?”

“I suppose you have a point,” Crowley said, with an amused grin and perhaps a touch of pride. “Tell me more about yourself, angel.”

“What would you like to know?” Aziraphale asked, his heart sparkling like champagne bubbles at the pet name.

“Start at the beginning, and tell me everything.”

So Aziraphale obliged him. He told Crowley everything he could think of about his childhood, up to and including the time his Uncle Merton had spooked the Lawsons’ pig, and they’d ended up chasing the sow through the town square on market day. Crowley’s laugh at the ridiculous story lodged itself directly beneath Aziraphale’s breastbone and would not budge. So Aziraphale spent the remainder of the dinner doing his level best to incite the laugh again. He knew he was in trouble, but with every bite of delicious food and sip of intoxicating wine and bubble of Crowley’s laughter, Aziraphale cared less and less about extricating his teetering heart.

“It must be getting late,” he said finally, as he sipped his after-dessert tea. “But I confess, I have never in my life passed such a delightful dinner with such a consummate host. I hope I have not overstayed my welcome.”

“Not at all. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain admirably.”

Aziraphale blushed into his cup, dropping his gaze as he sipped. Then he had a thought that the wine had made him just brazen enough to voice.

“I say, would you mind, dear boy, if I made use of the facilities?”

“I do not mind,” Crowley said, rising to his feet to accompany Aziraphale to the edge of the dining room. “Down the hall, third door on your left.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, still blushing, camera in his grip. “Won’t be a moment.”

When he got to the indicated door, he poked his head in and found a toilet equally as lavish as all the rooms before it. But he ducked out as quickly and made his way round the staircase to another doorway that entered a marvelous ballroom, perfect for the masquerade scene where Dracula first seduces his intended victim. 

Aziraphale took out his camera and snapped multiple shots from various angles, each of them as impressive as the last. He peeked into the dining room again as he passed to see Crowley reading a letter of some sort while he finished his coffee. And though the domestic sight melted Aziraphale in ways he didn’t care to admit, he nipped off again to tip-toe up the staircase to the second floor. The hall leading in either direction was covered in art, clearly from the same artist, and as Aziraphale looked closely at the loopy A that served as a signature, he felt even more sure that _Antonin_ Crowley was indeed the painter responsible.

Despite the beauty of the works, Aziraphale avoided photographing the art itself, focusing solely on the architecture, especially where he thought Gabriel would be impressed.

“Find something of interest?”

Crowley’s voice floating out of the shadows behind him made Aziraphale jump nearly a mile out of his skin.

“Goodness gracious me!” Aziraphale said whirling to look sheepishly up at Crowley. “Oh, dear, I beg your pardon. I was startled half out of my wits.”

“I did mean the third door on the left on the _first_ floor.”

“Oh-oh, yes. Of course. I do apologize. I became quite distracted by the lovely surroundings.”

“Did you get enough pictures?” Crowley asked as he led Aziraphale back to the staircase and started down again.

“I-I suppose so. I will of course be using them solely in relation to my work as location scout. I would never presume—”

“Relax, angel. I’m not upset.”

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as they reached the main floor. “Oh, thank goodness. I had worried I’d ruined everything by snooping—I mean, scouting. Yes, scouting. I should have asked first.”

“It’s fine. When is your crew scheduled to arrive?” Crowley asked.

“When might the castle be available? We do not wish to step on your toes, as it were, if you have prior engagements.”

“No, no engagement to speak of, prior or otherwise. You may begin tomorrow, if you wish.”

“That is quite generous of you, truly. But it will take several weeks to complete preparations. We’ve only just hired the actors. There’s rehearsals and costuming and more besides. We have to order film. Would the first of October be convenient?”

Crowley’s smile faded at the news. “But that’s two months away. Is it not preferable for you to rehearse in the space in which you’d be filming? And there are tailors in the village. Film can be shipped here, can it not?”

“I—I cannot presume to impose on you for such a long period of time. It would double the length of our stay, at least.”

“I have all the time in the world, angel, I promise you. And I find myself increasingly amused by the idea. I must insist that you return as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, gobsmacked for perhaps the hundredth time that day. “Alright. I will speak with Gabriel at once.”

Then whatever mischievous spirit had possessed him to wander off on his own before took hold of Aziraphale again, whispering another impudent idea into his ear. 

“I have taken the liberty of asking my man Ligur to drive you back to your lodgings,” Crowley said. “I hope that is an acceptable arrangement.”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your putting yourself out for me.”

“It’s no trouble, angel,” he said with an almost wistful expression. 

Then screwing up his courage, Aziraphale asked, “Crowley, would you mind if I took your picture as well? Not to show the others, but for me. To remember this incredible evening before the chaos descends.”

Good lord, if he blushed any harder, he was certain to burst into flame.

Crowley’s expression, however, turned from wistful to aching and then to sardonic in such a flash that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d interpreted his expressions correctly.

“I heard a rumor once that if you allow someone to take your photograph, they have captured your soul forever.”

“Oh, tosh. That’s silly. It’s only a picture.”

“Call me superstitious,” Crowley said as he opened the heavy oak door with barely an ounce of exertion. “Good night, angel. See you next week.”

“Next week?” Aziraphale squeaked. “I don’t know that we can prepare that—”

“One week, Aziraphale,” he insisted, ushering Aziraphale out into the night. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I…will do my best,” Aziraphale said, but the door had already closed.


	2. Chapter 2

When Aziraphale arrived in the village at the base of the mountain, he found Crowley’s car, a black tourer with red wheels, waiting for him outside the train station. This was quite the surprise, given that he hadn’t communicated with Crowley at all in the intervening days. In fact, he’d planned to stay in the hostel until he’d had a chance to at least call on Crowley to discuss other arrangements. But the moment he’d exited the station house, Crowley’s driver—Ligur, was it?—got out of the car and opened the boot. With a nod to Aziraphale, he picked up his suitcase and stowed it in the compartment. Then he opened the passenger’s-side door for Aziraphale.

“Out of curiosity,” he said, as he climbed into the car. “How did Crowley know I would be arriving today?”

“He didn’t say, sir,” Ligur said, affably enough, as he shut the door behind him. 

Ligur walked round the front and slid into his own seat before starting the engine. He waved for a buggy coming up on his left to wait for him to pull out first. The driver of the buggy frowned at him but nevertheless stopped to allow the car to merge into the lane without impediment.

“Damn carriages. Bloody everywhere, aren’t they?” Ligur grumbled.

“I suppose being in such a remote location, the modern conveniences haven’t yet made it this far out.”

Ligur shrugged. “Count’s had the Bentley 3 Litre here almost since the moment it came off the line.”

“Bentley?” Aziraphale asked.

“New company. Builds chassis. Vanden Plan for the body. Crowley likes to drive fast when he drives himself, so he wanted a race car. Double the engine size of a bloody Bugatti. Isn’t it something?”

“Yes…something,” Aziraphale said, not thinking about cars. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Count’?”

Ligur shot him a side-long glance before returning his eyes to the road, which had already begun its winding ascent through the woods to Crowley’s castle. “Yes, sir. Family title, passed down through generations. Never goes to court that I’ve ever seen. Mostly lets the county govern itself, though locals do call on him to settle disputes now and then.”

“You are talking about Crowley, right? Crowley is a count?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. No wonder the man seemed so comfortable in his authority. Aziraphale had assumed he was simply wealthy, or perhaps had stumbled upon a position as manager of a historic landmark. He had not expected that Crowley was an actual, legitimate nobleman. His heart sank a bit at the thought. He’d never stood a chance with Crowley, of course—he knew that. But he’d hoped they might maintain some sort of friendship after the filming was finished. Now even that hope seemed foolish and farfetched. What _count_ needed a near-penniless location scout for a friend?

“I’d not realized,” Aziraphale said, staring out into the gloomy woods.

“He doesn’t talk about it much. But staff uses the title out of respect.”

Aziraphale nodded. Then he realized with a start, “Oh, dear, should I be calling him that too? Or-or your eminence or something?”

Ligur laughed, the sound echoing in the strange stillness of the forest. “Nah, I doubt he’d like that. If he didn’t introduce himself as such, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s not one for ceremony. But he _is_ one for respect. Remember that.”

“Of course.”

They spent the remainder of the journey in silence, Aziraphale practicing in his head how he should address Crowley when he met him again. It had only been a week, but what if the count had changed his mind? Filming a moving picture now seemed frivolous and silly compared to the duties required of a ruling landholder.

Aziraphale had worked himself into a tangled knot of anxiety by the time Ligur pulled the Bentley into the bailey and cut the engine. 

“I’ll have Hastur see to your luggage,” Ligur said.

“Perhaps it should stay in the car until I confirm with Crowley that he is still amenable to the intrusion?”

Ligur gave him a sardonic look. “Whatever you say.”

Aziraphale nodded a brief thanks, strode to the door, and raised his hand to use the knocker. But before he could so much as touch it, the door swung open from the inside.

At first, Aziraphale couldn’t make out the figure in the shadowy interior who’d opened the door for him. He’d assumed it was Crowley, as it had been the last time, but the body shape was all wrong. Shorter and blockier and hair slicked down. 

“Welcome, Mr. Ange. Count Crowley is waiting for you in the east wing sitting room. If you would be so kind as to follow me?”

Aziraphale entered the hall as bid, and this time when he crossed the threshold, he felt a warm tingle all over his body, as if someone who cared about him were giving him a homecoming hug. He inhaled deeply, recognizing the unique loam and honey scent of the castle, with hints of jasmine near the windows. Oil lamps burned brightly in wall sconces, adding notes of myrrh to the castle’s redolence.

Despite the cloudless morning sunshine, the interior of the castle seemed as dark as the evening he’d first explored it. That is, until his guide led him into the east wing sitting room, where the entire south wall was made of panels of glass, like a conservatory, with plants of every size, shape, and description congregating under the sun’s blinding rays. The plants couldn’t entirely block the breathtaking view of the magnificent, sweeping valley and the quaint village roofs dotting the hillsides at the base of the mountain.

Aziraphale blinked against the sudden shift from darkness to brightness as he entered, whispering a hurried thank-you to the servant as he left Aziraphale alone with his host.

“Angel, you made it,” Crowley said from where he lounged on the chaise, looking even more dashing than he had during Aziraphale’s last visit. He wore a loose, black poet’s shirt open to the navel and the tightest black trousers Aziraphale had ever seen around his slim hips. His red hair still whipped upwards like flames around his head, and his sunglasses were still firmly in place.

The chaise was situated in the one shadowy corner in the room, separated from the sea of sunshine by a Japanese curtain with a snake design looping in coils down the translucent panels of paper and wood. Aziraphale cleared his throat, already blushing, and the man had barely begun to speak. Good lord, this visit was going to test all of Aziraphale’s resources.

“You must be exhausted from your trip,” Crowley continued. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, feeling the acknowledged weight of weariness settle his pounding heart a bit. He collapsed into the chair opposite Crowley’s chaise as he said, “I took the four-thirty train from Bucharest this morning, which meant I was up almost before I went to sleep last night.”

Crowley poured him a cup of tea from an exquisite enamel teapot, white with blue painted flowers.

“Milk or sugar?”

“Both please,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley passed Aziraphale the mug, his fingers grazing Aziraphale’s hand during the exchange. Aziraphale’s stomach fluttered as if a small bird were trapped inside him. Crowley’s mouth turned up into a genuine smile as he slid the creamer and sugar bowl towards Aziraphale’s end of the coffee table.

Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling back as he fixed his cup, a slight tremor in his movements. He really shouldn’t let Crowley’s attention affect him so strongly. He had to muddle through at least a month of interacting with Crowley on a regular basis. He couldn’t let it become obvious how much he admired Crowley. Gabriel would never let him hear the end of it if he caught wind of it. Though, to be fair, Gabriel was patently oblivious to other people’s feelings most of the time.

“I’m happy you’ve returned as requested. When is the rest of your crew arriving?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” Aziraphale answered, sipping his tea. “I came in advance to discuss the timeline and logistical matters, as well as to answer any questions you might have.”

Crowley’s smile broadened. “I appreciate that. I hope your travels weren’t too onerous.”

“Oh, no, dear. I made all the arrangements from Bucharest, so I didn’t have far to go. Gabriel—he’s the producer, if you’ll remember—and the rest of the cast and crew left from Los Angeles the day after I gave them the green light. I told them to spare no expense, that we couldn’t miss this opportunity. Gabriel took a little convincing, being that I didn’t have time to develop the pictures I’d taken and send them to him beforehand. But once I’d explained the, er, budget implications of shooting anywhere else, he fell into line handily.”

“You must have been very persuasive.”

“In the moving pictures world, you have to seize any opportunity as soon as it reveals itself, or someone more enterprising will snatch it out from under you.”

“I honestly can’t remember the last time an opportunity presented itself to me, until you came along,” Crowley said, his gaze lingering on Aziraphale in an unsettling but provocative way. Aziraphale took a deep breath and another sip of tea. “I suppose I should give you a tour while you fill me in on the logistics.”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, relieved. The distraction would perhaps keep those piercing eyes occupied on other things besides Aziraphale, making it less likely that their owner would be able to surmise Aziraphale’s regard for him.

The next hour was the most enjoyable Aziraphale had spent in months, if not years. The castle’s surprises were limitless, it seemed. The prospect from the top-most tower rooms made the view from the east wing sitting room seem like an ordinary outlook onto a common garden by comparison. Were it not for the mist clinging to the mountains, Aziraphale felt sure he would be able to see as far away as Bucharest itself. And the beauty of the landscape beggared description. It held a wild ferocity tempered by the passage of time. A mournful wind caused Aziraphale to shiver, but not in dread, nor even in cold. But rather in recognition. His own soul had made that exact sound his entire life, and only now did he hear its echo in the air around him.

Nevertheless, Crowley saw the shiver and shepherded Aziraphale down from the battlements with the excuse that the forest had gotten colder as the autumn set in. Aziraphale did not correct his assumption, as how silly would it sound to say that his soul had connected irrevocably to a place thousands upon thousands of miles away from where he lived _and_ from where he was born? It made no sense, so he kept the truth to himself.

“You’ve gone quiet again,” Crowley said. “And sad. I hope my home is not dissatisfactory?”

“Of course not, dear boy,” Aziraphale hurriedly assured him. “With every step, I fall a little more in love.” Then he nearly bit his own tongue. What a thing to say! And to the very man to whom he should absolutely not be admitting such things.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Crowley said, opening yet another door for Aziraphale. “I would hate to think I have disappointed you.”

“Not in the least, I promise.”

“Then why sad? And don’t deny it. Your face is an open book.”

Aziraphale scrambled for something to say that was not too revealing. “It is only that I feel the history of this place, and it…speaks to me, for lack of a better phrase. I can’t explain it. But I do love it.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, seeming to doubt that this was the entire truth, damn his perceptive streak.

But before Aziraphale could answer, he entered the next room along the hall they’d been exploring, and all of Aziraphale’s words disappeared with his breath.

The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with books. Books of every color of the rainbow. And the size of the room was staggering. Larger than the ballroom downstairs and easily three stories high. There were more books in that one room than Aziraphale could read in a lifetime. Spiral staircases led to catwalks. Ladders on wheels lined each wall. Every book was easily accessible, even the ones over the massive stone fireplace in the middle of the far wall. And the few chairs and couches scattered throughout the room looked plush and worn and loved.

“This is the west library,” Crowley explained as he pushed past where Aziraphale had stopped dead in the doorway. 

“This is the _west library_?” Aziraphale said, sounding strangled to even his own ears.

“There is also a north library and an east library. The east library is slightly smaller, though.”

“Oh, my good lord in heaven,” Aziraphale said, head reeling. “How…? I didn’t know this many books existed in all the world.”

“Of course,” Crowley said with a smile, finally seeming to register Aziraphale’s shock as reverence and awe. “Many of them are in their native languages, though, so you’d have to import translators for the languages in which you aren’t fluent.”

“I…would…?” Aziraphale was having difficulty seeing straight. The room still seemed to be spinning.

“Yes, you may use the room to your heart’s content, angel. I would prefer the other guests not frequent it often, but the books are allowed to be borrowed with all due care.”

Aziraphale shook his head, attempting to reorient himself. “I doubt many of them will take you up on that offer. They are visual storytellers, for the most part. They are less captivated by the written word.”

“And you?”

“I…” Aziraphale could barely contain his wiggles of delight. “I can’t even begin to express—”

“Count Crowley, if I may interrupt.”

The doorman from earlier with the straw hair and the dead stare had appeared behind Aziraphale without his notice.

“Yes, Hastur?”

“There is a man in the hall named Gabriel Gray who has come to call. Should I send him away?”

Aziraphale could feel his expression faltering. He tried to convert it to an over-bright smile before Crowley noticed, but he doubted he’d fooled him. The man was far too shrewd for Aziraphale’s good.

“Should I send him away until tomorrow, angel?” Crowley asked. “You had said the others wouldn’t arrive today.”

“Oh, no, thank you. I suppose he wants to get the lay of the land before the horde descends,” Aziraphale said with a casualness he did not feel. He had hoped he and Crowley would have a few more hours to themselves at least, maybe one more private dinner. But it was a vain hope that only served Aziraphale and no one else, so he could let the hope go. It made sense that Gabriel wanted to inspect the location. It had nothing at all to do with him checking up on Aziraphale, he told himself, though he really didn’t believe it. 

“Ah, Count Crowley,” Gabriel said with an arrogant and artificial smile when Aziraphale and Crowley had joined him in the entryway. He greeted Crowley as if he were an equal when, to Aziraphale’s estimation, he was anything but. “I took the liberty of calling a day early to talk timeline and logistics, maybe answer any pesky questions you have lingering.”

Crowley frowned, circling close behind Aziraphale as he came to stand between him and Gabriel. “I believe Aziraphale was doing just that before you arrived,” he said.

Gabriel made a dismissive gesture. “Aziraphale’s great and all, but he doesn’t have the vision, the experience—or the imagination, honestly—that I have, seeing as I am the director.”

A silence fell so cold that it felt as if Death were stalking them. Aziraphale could see his breath as he exhaled. Crowley had frozen in place, his stance rigid as he stared at Gabriel. And even oblivious Gabriel seemed to have tensed.

Aziraphale chuckled nervously, not knowing what else to do but to restart the conversation, lightening Gabriel’s remark to grease the wheels.

“Oh, Gabriel,” he said, making a joke out of it. “You always say the nicest things.”

“Yes, well, as location scout, your faculties are naturally limited.”

Crowley let out a slight hiss that Aziraphale wouldn’t have heard if he weren’t standing so close.

“I would love a tour,” Gabriel continued, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

And thus Aziraphale found himself trailing after Crowley and Gabriel, following the same route he’d taken with Crowley already. They passed through the various halls of each wing, pausing at each room, as Gabriel took a cursory look around and made a note or a comment about how this or that scene would work in each room. He barely glanced in the library, dismissing it out of hand, as there were no scenes with books in the script.

Aziraphale was offended on Crowley’s behalf. Gabriel showed precious little regard for the castle itself, only stopping to note how it might or might not serve him. Not for the first time, Aziraphale felt embarrassed to be associated with Gabriel. Though, he’d never felt that embarrassment so keenly as he did in Crowley’s presence. It was his house that Gabriel was all but disrespecting, and Aziraphale had never wanted so badly to shake him until he learned some sense.

When they wound their way back into the main hall again, Gabriel took a final look around the space.

“Well, you actually got it right this time, Aziraphale, much to my surprise,” he said. Aziraphale’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You are improving by leaps and bounds with each moving picture we film. One day, you’ll be as good at location scouting as I am.” He laughed. “Who am I kidding? I am the best.”

Aziraphale heard a low growl from behind him, but to his knowledge, Crowley kept no pets, and the only person behind him was Crowley himself.

“Did you paint all this artwork?” Gabriel asked. Aziraphale was frankly surprised that Gabriel had been astute enough to pick up on the same clues that Aziraphale had.

“No, I did not. I am no painter.” Crowley’s soft reply came as a surprise as well. If not Crowley, then who was the mysterious ‘A’?

“Would you mind taking some of them down? They make the place a bit too cluttered for the effect I’m trying to create.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said before he thought better of it. How dare Gabriel be so completely insensitive? “This is a home, Gabriel, that we are borrowing. We cannot ask its owner to dismantle it for our whim.”

“As you say, Aziraphale,” Gabriel started in that cool tone that meant Aziraphale had better apologize and fall in line before Gabriel lost his temper. “We are merely borrowing it. Which means it can go back as it was the moment we leave. It’s not like I’m asking him to burn the things.”

“I absolutely forbid it. Crowley, don’t you dare change a single thing for us. The castle is perfect as is.” Aziraphale was generally more a let-Gabriel-get-his-way sort, but he could not give on this point. It was unconscionable.

A careful hand brushed Aziraphale’s elbow and then withdrew. 

“It’s alright, angel. I don’t mind relocating a few paintings. As long as you…”

Aziraphale sighed, still glaring hotly at Gabriel for even asking. “As long as we do what, dear boy?”

“Never mind. It’s fine, that’s all. I will have the staff remove these in the hall. What other rooms shall I alter?”

Aziraphale hated the idea that a single one of these gorgeous works would be hidden away. It felt wrong, and not just because it might hurt or offend Crowley. The paintings belonged where they were. She would not be pleased at their removal.

_Wait. She? Where had that thought come from?_

“I suppose Aziraphale and I should be off to see to the crew,” Gabriel said, glaring cooly at Aziraphale as Hastur brought him his hat and cane. 

“I’m afraid Aziraphale’s things have already been installed in his room upstairs,” Crowley said. “He will be staying here for the night.”

Gabriel seemed about to object but Crowley interrupted him smoothly. “You and your cast and crew will also be lodging here for the remainder of the filming after tonight, of course. For this evening, you will be comfortable at the village inn.”

“Yes, of course. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” Crowley agreed. Aziraphale, rudely perhaps, said nothing. He was still too angry about Gabriel’s behavior.

After the door had closed behind the man, Crowley turned to Aziraphale with his arms crossed.

“Well, that was interesting,” he said.

Aziraphale turned away, cheeks burning yet again with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry about him. He has not a wit of sense or compassion.”

Crowley gently grasped Aziraphale’s chin, and turned Aziraphale around to face him again.

“Trust me to take care of myself and my people,” he said just as gently. “If it were a problem to remove the paintings, I would have said so.”

“But it isn’t right. I can _feel_ that it isn’t.”

“It is fine, angel. I am far more concerned about how he treats you.”

Aziraphale shook his head, loosening Crowley’s grip on his chin enough that Crowley let go.

“He is like that with everyone. Or, at least, anyone he thinks is beneath him. He would never treat you that way.”

“That is not what concerns me,” Crowley said, crossing his arms again. “I consider you under my protection. And I do not take such careless treatment of my people lightly.”

“I will speak to him.”

“ _I_ will speak to him. But I want your permission to do so on your behalf.”

“I…don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

Aziraphale warmed treacherously at the idea that Crowley considered him worth protecting. Even if it was only temporary. Even if it didn’t mean anything, really. He’d never felt so cared for in his entire life as he had in the last two minutes, and that by a virtual stranger, no less.

“Alright,” he said.

Crowley nodded and pulled back. “For now, I will have Hastur show you to your room so that you may settle in. I need a word with the staff.”

“Of-of course,” Aziraphale said, flustered.

“I will see you at supper, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to do more for fear he might lose his mind and kiss the man. After a charged moment where neither moved, Crowley finally turned on his heel and headed into an adjoining hallway.

Aziraphale blew out the breath he’d been holding, struggling to tear his gaze away from where Crowley had been.

“If you would follow me, sir?” Hastur said, gesturing with a slight bow towards the staircase.

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale said and did as told, though his mind wouldn’t settle on anything besides Crowley.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale appeared in the dining room at supper time to find it empty. That in itself was not surprising really, given that Crowley had mentioned he’d needed a word with the staff. Perhaps overseeing painting relocation was taking longer than expected. What was surprising, however, was that the table was set for not two but three. Who was Crowley’s other guest? And why hadn’t he mentioned them when discussing dinner earlier?

Aziraphale wasn’t sure of the protocol, whether to sit or to wait, so he did neither. He headed back out of the dining room and up to the west library, or at least where he thought he remembered the west library to be. The castle was huge and labyrinthine. It wasn’t easy cataloguing all the proper turns and staircases to take. He’d barely managed to get from his room—which was as richly appointed as the rest of the castle—to the main hall, and from thence to the dining room. But despite a few confused turns, the castle seemed to want him to feel at home and so always seemed to somehow guide him in the right direction. Not with anything as obvious as a sign or a map, but with a gut feeling, as if he’d been there before and often, but only in a dream. 

In any case, he found the door to the west library eventually but when he went to open it, he nearly smacked into a bespectacled young woman in a Victorian-style dress of black lace over green brocade, buttoned up to her throat. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I wasn’t aware anyone was behind the door.”

“Not at all,” said the woman. “I just came to drop off some books. My name’s Anathema. You must be Aziraphale.” 

She stuck out her hand to shake in the modern way, which surprised Aziraphale. He figured a woman with such conservative dress would not share the mindset of the more egalitarian of her sex. Nevertheless, Aziraphale was more than happy to shake her hand. He’d volunteered a time or two for Tracy’s suffragist movement, handing out fliers and the like, so he was more than comfortable with the new modes of thinking. 

“I am indeed,” he said. “Are you a guest of the Count’s as well?”

“Oh, no, I live here. I am Crowley’s niece.”

“His niece?”

How odd. Crowley had never mentioned having a family, and so Aziraphale had assumed he was as alone in the world as Aziraphale was. 

“Do you have other family in the castle?”

“No, it’s just me and Crowley. I have recently returned from traveling. Crowley has told me of your production, though, and I confess I am very curious to see how everything is done. Have you been long in the industry?”

As she talked, she led him away from the library and back down the hall towards the nearest staircase. It would be rude to excuse himself in the middle of a conversation just to peruse the books, so he gave up his errand and followed in her wake. 

“Moving pictures, as I’m sure you know, is still a relatively new and experimental field. I have been working with my producer for about ten years, give or take, though not all of our productions have seen commercial success.”

“Do you make talkies?”

“No, not as yet. There is a whole post-production element to adding the spoken word that we are not equipped for. Besides, Gabriel is a bit of a traditionalist. He believes that actors should be seen and not heard.”

Anathema snorted and made a face. “Where have I heard that one before?”

She raised her hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, affording Aziraphale the sight of a strange scar on her wrist. It looked like two small puncture wounds about two inches apart from each other that had healed over, leaving a raised bump of scar tissue over each.

“Snake bite,” she said when she caught him looking at it. “When I was fourteen. Not a venomous one, though. I was lucky.”

“I see. Hopefully, not here in the castle,” he joked, trying to rectify his social faux pas.

She laughed at his quip but offered no further information.

“So have you lived here long?” Aziraphale asked, making small talk as they descended the stairs.

“All my life,” Anathema said. And was it his imagination, or had there been a slight tone of melancholy underlying her words? “I was born here.”

“Oh, my. Not in hospital?”

“It was during a snowstorm, and I came suddenly, I’ve been told.”

“Well, you have had your share of adventures.”

She snorted again and didn’t respond. Aziraphale was saved from any further awkwardness by the fact that they had just rounded the corner into the dining room.

“Angel, there you are. I was just about to go looking...”

Crowley stopped dead mid-sentence as Anathema entered the room on Aziraphale’s heels.

“Anathema,” Crowley said, his shoulders stiffening. 

A sudden tension thickened the air as Anathema nodded cooly at the greeting. “Crowley,” she said in kind. 

“You’ve met, I see,” Crowley said, his expression alert and searching for something, though Aziraphale couldn’t imagine what that might be. 

“In the library just now,” Aziraphale supplied. “We’ve been having a lovely chat on the way back. Haven’t we, dear?”

“Yes. Lovely.”

Then she took her seat on Crowley’s left side while Aziraphale took the same seat he’d had last time on Crowley’s right.

The waitstaff brought out the soup course as before, and though Aziraphale didn’t recognize the kind, it was just as heavenly, with chunks of chicken and a sour lemon flavor to the broth.

“Anathema, you mentioned you’d been traveling,” Aziraphale began, trying to lift the conversation a bit from its rocky start. “Did you see anything exciting while you were away?”

Crowley scowled at his bowl.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact,” Anathema said with a smile that seemed only slightly forced. “I went to St. Petersburg for the Festival of Fountains, when they reopen the Peterhof Fountains for the year. So much music and dancing.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful. I’ve never been to St. Petersburg myself, but of course I’ve read about it in books. Did you see the Grande Cascade Grottos while you were there? I read that they were inspired by Peter the Great himself.”

They prattled on about the history of St. Petersburg for a good half hour, while Crowley grew increasingly sullen. He didn’t contribute at all to the discourse, and in fact, had nearly stopped eating altogether.

“And what about you, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, shifting the discussion to forcefully include Crowley if needs must.

“What about me?”

“Have you ever been to St. Petersburg?”

“Yes.”

Silence fell, apart from the clinking of dishes and silver as the servants laid out the next course. 

“And?” Aziraphale prompted.

“And what? It was a city. Like any other. I’m not much for traveling.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said and let the matter drop.

Anathema got two bites into her pheasant before she finally snapped. “If I may be excused, I should like to finish settling my things.”

Crowley grunted rudely in reply, and she pushed back her chair with an echoing scrape. Then she stormed from the hall in a way which, despite her well-mannered demeanour, Aziraphale might have called a flounce. 

“Really, Crowley, I’m surprised at you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Crowley said, looking up from his own plate with obvious surprise.

“You were very dismissive just now, and I don’t believe it was warranted.”

“How—?” Crowley garbled a few more words before continuing with, “You don’t know the situation, you barely know us. How could you possibly know what was warranted?”

“Well, it’s obvious that she’s a very nice and responsible young lady. What could she possibly have done to deserve such a cold reception?”

Crowley scowled at him. “She left.”

“Ah. Well, that makes a good deal more sense in retrospect,” Aziraphale said. “I know it’s none of my business, dear boy, but I do think it’s incumbent upon me to make one more tiny observation.”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, still scowling but allowing Aziraphale to continue.

“She came back.”

Crowley scoffed. “She’ll just leave again.”

“You could go with her.”

“I don’t travel.”

“So you mentioned.”

“I have obligations.”

“Of course you do, dear.”

“I have a county to run.”

“No one is denying that…”

Crowley growled, “…But…?”

“But other landholders go on holiday, you know.”

“That’s different.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Crowley sounded like such a petulant child at the moment, arguing with him over something so inane, and Aziraphale found it amusing and almost charming. He knew he shouldn’t. One more entitled ruler was the last thing the world needed. But for Crowley to be so clearly worried about being left behind of all things was so… _ human _ , was the word that sprang to Aziraphale’s mind, that Aziraphale found it sweet. And more to the point, relatable.

“Why are you smiling at me? I’m very annoyed right now.”

“Yes, and you’re being quite ridiculous about it. I do believe you owe your niece an apology.”

Crowley harrumphed in response, but he picked up his fork and dug into his supper, so Aziraphale internally declared himself the victor.

“It’s not all that wonderful,” Crowley groused between mouthfuls.

“What’s that, dear?”

“St. Petersburg. I found it dull.”

Aziraphale chuckled and said, “I’ll keep that in mind when I scout locations for our next production.”

The rest of the meal progressed as pleasantly as their last. Crowley asked Aziraphale where he had traveled to thus far, and Aziraphale spent at least an hour enjoyably recounting his adventures in Wales, France, and even Egypt. When Crowley had asked about his experiences in America, however, Aziraphale could feel himself retreating into innocuous details. His time with Gray Productions—with Gabriel in particular—did not furnish such warm and amusing memories as the other anecdotes. Peculiar. He’d honestly not noticed how much he’d changed since taking up with Gabriel, and in ways that he suspected were not altogether desirable. He made a mental note to revisit the topic at a later time when he was alone and had the leisure to reflect.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said absently.

“You were saying, about Atlantic City?”

“Oh, right. It’s nothing, really. Just American exceptionalism,” he said with a dismissive wave. Then he dove into his third course with gusto, ignoring Crowley’s skeptical gaze. “This cassoulet is simply to die for.”

Crowley snorted then, and picked up his own spoon. “Well, I certainly enjoy watching you eat it, angel.”

By the end of the dessert course—papanași with cream and currant compote—Aziraphale and Crowley were cackling over some anecdote that Aziraphale hadn’t even remembered until he was telling the story. 

“You gave it  _ away _ ?” Crowley said, guffawing.

“Well, I had to, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, giggling into his teacup. “I couldn’t very well take it with me.”

Crowley laughed harder, slapping his knee with delight, which made Aziraphale glow with happiness. Crowley simply had a way of making one feel as if one were the most interesting person in the room, and Aziraphale loved it.

Crowley sighed contentedly, wiping his eye under his glasses. “Oh, angel,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve not laughed like that in ages.”

“I aim to please,” Aziraphale said, draining the last of his cup. Then he stifled a yawn, noticing at last how dark it was outside the windows. “Goodness, it’s later than I thought. I should perhaps turn in for the evening.”

“Yes, of course,” Crowley said, getting to his feet. “And I suppose I should pay Anathema a visit before she retires as well.”

Aziraphale beamed at Crowley as he got up as well, flattered that Crowley seemed to be taking his advice and pleased that he’d managed to mend bridges between two people that he liked very much.

“Until tomorrow then,” Aziraphale said, taking his time over pushing in his chair so he could linger just that little bit longer. Crowley’s gaze caught his, and he felt almost mesmerized, his mind clouding with fluffy wisps of happiness. He’d been staring for far too long when he realized he was doing so and tore his gaze away. 

Leaving the dining room was far more difficult than it had any right to be. Aziraphale’s feet dragged up the stairs and down the hall to his room, likely in part due to the knowledge that this was the last meal he would share with Crowley alone. But what else was there to be done? He would still see Crowley over the next month, in passing at least. And with any luck, he’d happen upon him alone in the library occasionally.

He comforted himself with this small hope as he turned down his sheets and prepared for bed. He changed into his pajamas while thinking about Crowley’s promise to speak to Gabriel on Aziraphale’s behalf. He dimmed the lamp next to the bed while thinking about the firelight dancing in Crowley’s hair. He slid beneath the bed covers while thinking about their shared laughter throughout their meal. 

He was so distracted, in fact, that he nearly missed the flash of light from behind the tapestry on the opposite wall. When he saw it, he assumed at first that it was a groundskeeper turning in for the night. But then he realized there wasn’t a window along the wall from which the light would have emanated, that in fact, the light could only have come from  _ beneath _ the tapestry itself. 

He got out of bed at once to investigate, his pajamas seeming suddenly paper thin and flimsy. The light had gone as instantly as it had come, but he had seen it, he was sure of it. 

With a quick movement, be lifted the tapestry away from the wall, holding the lamp high to see what might be cowering there. But…there was nothing. Just a solid wall. Aziraphale felt the stone with his hands, searching for some sort of fissure that might explain the source of the light, but he came up empty.

He should have felt relieved that he’d only imagined it all, but instead he felt insecure, as if someone were whispering the truth in his ear and he couldn’t quite hear it. It was several hours before he finally relaxed enough to sleep. And when he did, he dreamt of fire.

*

The next morning dawned cold and gloomy. Dark clouds hovered just above the treetops as far into the valley as Aziraphale could see from his room. Despite the absence of the sunlight which had characterized the day before, the landscape was just as stunning, limned in pewter rather than gilded in gold.

Aziraphale decided to take a turn around the grounds for some fresh air before breakfast. He dressed in his usual suit, donning his overcoat to fend off the chill. As he left the room, he threw a suspicious glance at the tapestry that had thwarted him the night before. Then he settled his hat in place and headed outside.

Once in the garden, he marveled at the decorative hedges, the carefully groomed paths, the riotous flowers that were only just starting to age into their autumnal colors, their stalks slightly withered, their petals wrinkling along the edge. So absorbed was he in studying his environs that he almost bumped into Anathema a second time.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, dear girl,” he said as he pulled up short while rounding a large topiary that had blocked his view. “I seem to be making a habit of nearly running you over when we meet.”

“Not at all, Aziraphale. I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”

“I see you have decided to take advantage of this lovely morning as well.”

“Lovely?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s likely to rain the whole afternoon.”

“What’s wrong with the rain?”

Anathema smiled. “Nothing, I suppose. Most people tend to prefer sunshine is all.”

“I find it is more gratifying to take pleasure in both. Would you like to join me for a nice cup of tea?”

She nodded, and then fell into step beside him as they headed back towards the castle and breakfast.

“I imagine it is you I should thank for Crowley’s apology last night.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m sure he’d have come to it on his own even if I hadn’t pointed out a flaw or two in his assumptions.”

“Ha! I’m not at all sure about that. But regardless, thank you. Our relationship has been a little…strained...of late.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale inquired politely. He didn’t wish to pressure her for information, but he did very much want to know. 

“He prefers that I don’t travel.”

“I do find that rather odd. If you have the means and the inclination, why shouldn’t you?”

“He’s…in a delicate situation. He can’t leave as readily as I can, and so he feels abandoned whenever I do. But I can’t stay cooped up in Drumul Carului forever. I want to see the world,  _ do _ something with my life.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, hoping he sounded empathetic and not condescending.

“That’s just it,” she said, her expression sad. “I don’t think anyone really can understand it. I love Crowley, but his situation is complicated, so I feel guilty…” She took a breath. “You don’t want to hear my troubles.”

“I don’t mind in the least,” Aziraphale said. “Only surely there is a way Crowley can travel as well?”

“He can’t really leave the castle.”

“Because of his duties?”

“Because of his…erm…constitution.”

“Crowley is not well?” Aziraphale said, alarmed.

“He’s fine. He just… He has a condition that can be difficult to manage outside the castle.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said, his image of Crowley radically remaking itself in his mind.

But by then they’d made it to the dining room, and he lost his opportunity to inquire further, were he brazen enough to do so.

“Morning, angel,” the subject of their conversation offered as they entered the room. “Sleep well, I hope?”

“Soundly, my dear, thank you.”

Breakfast seemed to be a buffet affair, with plates of fruit, pasties, omelets, roasted vegetables, friganele, and ham cakes filling the sideboard. 

“This looks scrumptious,” Aziraphale said as he gestured for Anathema to precede him. She smiled sweetly at him as she filled her plate and sat in her accustomed place. Aziraphale followed her example, taking an extra helping of the friganele before sitting down. Crowley’s plate was already full, so all three parties tucked in with gusto.

The thought occurred to Aziraphale to ask Crowley about the light he’d seen behind his tapestry. But he ultimately dismissed the notion. He could easily have imagined the whole thing, after all. And besides, the mystery of Crowley’s condition was far more intriguing at the moment.

What medical condition would be so severe as to confine him to the castle without any trace of visible frailty? Was he more susceptible to potential illness? But he would hardly invite a contingent of more than forty strangers to live and work in his home for months, were that case. Might his condition involve a greater susceptibility to injury then?

Aziraphale thought back to all his interactions with and observations of Crowley to date, and he could find no particular action that might hint at such a thing. He was hardly retiring or fearful in his manner. If anything, he was the opposite. Strong, virile, dominant. But perhaps that was just an act? 

Aziraphale rejected the idea almost before thinking it. No act was that convincing. Crowley was certainly strong enough to tie Gabriel into knots, and likely would before filming was finished. 

He studied Crowley during the course of the conversation, which, due to Anathema’s presence, consisted mainly of discussions of books one or the other of them had read. Crowley scoffed at some of the more arcane books Anathema put forward, listing books on the study of astrophysics as some of his particular favorites.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that, yet again, Crowley was wearing his dark glasses indoors. In fact, Aziraphale was astonished to realize that he’d never actually seen Crowley’s eyes. Was he blind? Was he able to navigate the castle from memory but less comfortable roaming the unfamiliar world?

No, that couldn’t be it. Ligur had said Crowley liked to drive the car himself on occasion. He couldn’t very well do that blind. Besides, he’d looked at Aziraphale’s business card like he was reading it. And Aziraphale was fairly sure it would have come up in conversation by now if he were blind.

The dark glasses were a part of it, though, Aziraphale was sure. And Crowley was dreadfully pale, likely from avoiding the sun so much. Come to think of it, Crowley did avoid the sun at all costs. The only time Aziraphale had seen him outside was during the tour when they’d gone to the roof of one of the turrets. And even then, he’d hung back in the shadowed doorway. At the time, Aziraphale had assumed he was simply giving Aziraphale as much room as possible to explore. But perhaps that wasn’t it. Perhaps he couldn’t withstand the sun’s direct rays?

This was perhaps less evidence than it was pure conjecture, but Crowley was also a nobleman, and the ruling class often suffered from rare, incurable diseases passed through the generations from parents to children. For example, hemophilia, a disease of the blood that affected predominantly…

Oh, dear lord. Did Crowley have  _ hemophilia _ ? That might explain why he was so reluctant to shake hands. Aziraphale knew next to nothing about hemophilia, so he resolved to search the libraries for more information at his next opportunity. Even if Crowley did not have hemophilia, it might be a gateway topic to discovering other maladies to consider.

Having settled on a course of action, Aziraphale put the matter out of his mind for the remainder of the meal. The cast and crew would be arriving soon, and Aziraphale would need to facilitate introductions and help unload the props, costumes, and supplies the company had brought with them.

He was just finishing his tea, and a lovely observation on Wilde’s “To Milton,” when the production company finally arrived. Their clatter of words and laughter and expressions of awe filled the hall, instantly turning the usual sedate ambience within the walls of the castle to something more akin to a tavern or playhouse.

“Show time,” Crowley said with a grin. Then he rose to his feet to go and meet his guests.

Aziraphale hurried to catch up, wanting to do the introductions properly—and cast severe warning glances at anyone who dared too much impertinence. The Americans were a motley crew, and not all of them had the most genteel of manners.

“Here we are,” Gabriel said with a pompous showman’s gesture.

Crowley frowned at Gabriel but then turned a genuine smile on the rest of the assembly.

“Welcome to Castel a Celor Căzuți. I am Count Antonin J. Crowley. My staff and I will be hosting you during your film project. This property has belonged to my family since the fourteenth century. As such, there are no doubt a few curiosities and quirks about the place. Feel free to ask me questions, or if I’m not available, let Aziraphale know, and he will pass along your queries to me. The staff can answer time-sensitive questions, if available, but I’d prefer you not pester them as they have enough to do in their daily routines.”

“Thank you for graciously agreeing to lend us your home for our production,” Gabriel said, with a slight emphasis on  _ production _ , as if correcting Crowley’s use of the term project. Aziraphale wanted to smack him.

Rolling his eyes at Gabriel, Aziraphale stepped in. “Let’s make a few introductions, shall we? You already know Gabriel. This lovely vision is Madam Tracy, head of costume and props.”

“Oh, you,” she said with a wave of dismissal at Aziraphale. 

Crowley bowed over her hand. “Welcome, Madam.”

“And this here is Newt,” Aziraphale continued, wanting to get through the crowd as quickly as possible. “He writes the actor’s scripts as well as the title cards for the film. Excellent penmanship.”

Crowley nodded, and then stepped back, indicating Anathema to come forward. “While we are making introductions, this is my niece, Anathema. She may also be able to direct you if you have a question or concern.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice Newt’s eyes growing large and round behind his owlish glasses. Poor man was the son of an impoverished tailor from Brooklyn. He’d never impress a lady of such high station, but it was clear he wanted to. Aziraphale felt a greater kinship with Newt in that moment than he had previously.

“Michael is assistant director. She runs the camera most of the time. Uriel is our set designer and lightning technician. And we have our cast as well. Note that many of our crew double as walk-ons. Helps us keep costs down, you know.”

“Of course.”

“This is Mary Loquacious, playing the role of Mina, our leading lady. And this is Sandalphon, playing the role of Van Helsing…”

From there, he introduced the remaining cast and crew members, none of which he expected Crowley to remember, but he tried to include an anecdote or two about the responsibilities each had on set to perhaps help Crowley identify them later in some capacity. Crowley, for his part, nodded at each introduction, notably avoiding handshakes or other polite touches, but with a social deftness that Aziraphale felt sure would have escaped his notice if he weren’t looking for it.

“I think that’s everyone,” Aziraphale said with a smile as he turned to address their host more directly. “I hope you took notes, my—”

Suddenly, Crowley lunged at Aziraphale, wrapping strong hands around Aziraphale’s biceps and heaving him backwards, slamming him up against the far wall. Aziraphale’s head collided painfully with the stone arch at his back, but the cacophony that rang through the hall could not have been caused by simply his head smacking the wall. He opened his eyes to a shattered ruin of a chandelier in the middle of the hall floor.


	4. Chapter 4

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale said, not altogether parsing what had just happened.

Crowley’s fingers gripped Aziraphale’s arms tightly, holding him up.

“Are you alright, angel?” he asked, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s face. 

“H-how?”

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

“No. H-how did you…how did you move that fast?”

Crowley took a deep breath, squeezing Aziraphale’s arms once before letting go of him altogether. There were almost certainly going to be bruises in the shape of fingers on his skin by morning, but it would be a good deal less painful than being flattened by a giant chandelier.

“I always move quickly when something important is threatened,” he said. “Are you alright, though? Your head…”

At those words, Aziraphale’s scrambled brains righted themselves all at once. _Crowley_ had nearly been flattened by a giant chandelier. Crowley who likely had some sort of blood disease, where the smallest wound could kill him. What if one of the shards of glass had ricocheted up and nicked him without his knowing?

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand as gently as he could, turning it this way and that, looking for abrasions. Then he did the same with the other hand. He reached up to touch Crowley’s hair, but Crowley had clearly had enough of touching and was backpedaling over the broken glass.

“Watch out!” Aziraphale stepped towards him in a panic. “There’s glass everywhere! I’d much prefer you stand by the stairs, dear, while we get this cleaned up.”

“I beg your pardon,” Crowley said.

But servants were already spilling out of various adjoining rooms and corridors to see what had caused the ruckus.

“No one is hurt,” Crowley said preemptively to the group. “Deirdre, Warlock, if you would be so kind as to sweep up the mess. Take care with the glass. Hastur, see to a replacement fixture, and be sure to install it more securely this time.”

“Sir,” all three said at once and then scurried about their business. The other members of staff busied themselves showing the cast and crew to their quarters and unloading the carriages that had brought their supplies.

“May I have a word?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, still tense with nerves from the incident. “In private?”

“Certainly,” Crowley said with a questioning expression. He then led Aziraphale through the ballroom balcony door to a veranda overlooking the garden. 

It was beautiful, of course, despite—or perhaps because of—the dark, low-hanging clouds. Everything had a preternatural stillness, as of holding one’s breath before a storm. But Aziraphale couldn’t let the beauty distract him. He had a bone to pick with his host, and he needed to do so before he lost his nerve.

“How could you?” he said, as soon as Crowley turned to face him.

“How could I what? Save you?”

“You could have hurt yourself coming to my rescue like that.”

“I was never in any danger. You, on the other hand, would have been a blood stain on the flagstone floors.”

Aziraphale paced in a tight line to relieve some of the pressure building in his chest. 

“You can’t take such risks,” he said. “Not for me. Not when...” He trailed off as he was loath to admit that he knew the Count’s secret.

“Not when what, angel?” Crowley pressed. 

Aziraphale exhaled sharply. Perhaps it was better if Crowley knew that he knew, and thought not a wit the worse of him for it. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel pressured to keep it a secret anymore.

“When the slightest cut could kill you.”

Crowley stared at him nonplussed. “What?”

“I know about your medical condition, alright?”

Crowley lurched backwards, as if Aziraphale had bitten him.

“What medical condition?”

“Hemophilia.”

“Hemophilia?”

“You mustn’t blame Anathema for telling me. In fact, she didn’t actually tell me. She simply happened to mention that your condition was difficult to manage away from the castle. I put the rest together myself.”

“Oh, did you now? What ‘rest’ do you mean in particular?”

“Well, you hide from the sun, always stay in shadow. You never touch anyone nor let anyone touch you, if you can help it. You wear dark glasses all the time, and you never leave your house. You are protecting yourself from something. Hemophilia seemed to make the most sense.”

Crowley stared at him for at least a full minute. Then he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, in fact, that tears ran down his face.

“I do not have hemophilia, angel. Though I will say, being thus diagnosed is a first for me.”

“But you have some kind of condition that makes you vulnerable. You can’t deny that, not with the way you cocoon yourself from the outside world.”

Crowley’s mirth evaporated like puddles on a hot summer day. “No, you are right. I do have a familial condition. But it doesn’t weaken me in the way you think. If anything, it makes me too... Well, never mind. It is none of your concern.”

“It absolutely is my concern if you could be hurt in any way, Crowley. I don’t want that. Ever. I want...”

Silence fell between them as Aziraphale trailed off a second time. How could he admit how much Crowley meant to him when they’d only just met? It made no sense, and Crowley was a pragmatic person. He wouldn’t welcome Aziraphale’s growing regard.

“What do you want, angel?” he asked quietly.

Aziraphale sighed in defeat. How on earth was he going to keep his feelings hidden for a month or more? He wasn’t built for subterfuge. Still, he opted for a branch of the truth rather than the root of it. He might not be able to fool Crowley entirely, but he could give him an answer that was safer and less personal.

“I want you to be happy,” he admitted, likely sounding as miserable as he felt.

Crowley stared as if gobsmacked. Then he lifted a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek, cradling it in his palm.

“How are you so...young?” he asked in wonder.

Aziraphale blinked in confusion, ignoring the riot of feelings tangling in his chest at the feeling of Crowley’s fingers so gently on his cheek. It was an odd thing to say, and Aziraphale wanted to know what he meant by it. 

“I am not young Crowley. I’ve lived half my life already.”

“I meant...pure of heart. You waltz into my sad, corrupt little life with the divine grace of love and light and humor. You see the good in everything. Even in that arsehole Gabriel. How can you, after you’ve seen as much of the world as you have?”

“It’s because I’ve seen the world, dear. I’ve been blessed by the divine grace, as you put it, of the love and light and humor in others. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about—”

“Ah! There you are.”

Gabriel came striding through the balcony door, shoulders back, smug expression firmly in place, as if he himself were the host and not the guest. Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale at once, folding his arms close to his chest.

“I’ve been looking for you, Sunshine,” he said to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the silly nickname. It was a year into their romantic relationship before Aziraphale realized he was using it not as an endearment, but rather as a diminutive to make himself feel more powerful. It was devoid of affection, and completely the opposite of the emotion behind Crowley’s _angel_. 

Crowley, meanwhile, shot a startled look at Aziraphale, as Gabriel blundered on, heedless of the moment he’d interrupted.

“I need you to read through Newt’s script edits, make sure he’s not put in some ridiculously unfilmable garbage.” Gabriel handed the pages in question to Aziraphale. “Also, Tracy wants to coordinate purchase of the remaining supplies we need for wardrobe and makeup. Get up to her room and try on the Jonathan Harker suit. Shadwell’s about the same build as you, so she can use your measurements for the Quincey Morris suit as well. Rehearsals start in the ballroom after lunch.”

Then as quickly as he’d arrived, Gabriel was off again, like a windstorm blowing through and leaving downed trees and torn shingles in his wake. It was quintessentially Gabriel, and Aziraphale ground his teeth in irritation.

“I’m sorry, dear, you were saying?” Aziraphale said.

But Crowley shook his head slightly, seeming to have walled himself off completely in the few seconds Gabriel had been there.

“I’m sorry, a—” He cleared his throat. “Aziraphale. I need to see to the chandelier incident.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, even as Crowley spirited himself away without a backwards glance.

The rest of the morning plodded along productively enough. Aziraphale read through and marked up Newt’s edits with his own thoughts on pacing and scene structure. The boy had a lot of potential in the craft, but he wasn’t as avid a reader as Aziraphale, and so hadn’t quite developed the rhythm of action and reaction, causation and correlation. He would get there eventually, but in the meantime, Aziraphale endeavored to educate and mentor him when he could.

The trip to Tracy’s room—or rooms, rather—was a much more enjoyable affair. He’d missed his best friend in the weeks since he’d seen her last. Traveling as a location scout sometimes meant being abroad for a month or more, chasing down rumors of likely venues for important scenes that simply could not be shot on set. 

Tracy hugged him hard the second he walked through her door, and he returned the hug with equal fervor.

“How have you been, love?” she asked with her usual radiant smile.

“Wonderful, my dear,” he said truthfully. “Chandelier mishaps notwithstanding.”

She tutted. “The Count really ought to keep better watch on things like that. Great spooky castles are no doubt tetchy and in need of constant repair. I’m so glad he managed to push you out of the way in time.”

“Yes, it was a very dashing rescue,” Aziraphale admitted with a wry smile.

Tracy perked up in interest but let this perhaps imprudent observation pass without comment.

“I assume you are here for your fitting?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes. Though, I don’t understand Gabriel’s insistence that I play the role. I’m not an actor.”

“It was my idea originally,” Tracy admitted as she positioned her measuring tape round Aziraphale’s chest. “Gabriel was struggling to find someone, and I mentioned that no one knew the script better than you or Newt. But you know he thinks Newt is a bumbler, so he settled on you, I suppose.”

“He thinks everyone is a bumbler except himself.”

Tracy laughed as she noted the measurement on paper. “You aren’t wrong about that.”

“These rooms are even more luxurious than mine,” Aziraphale commented as he looked around at the sumptuous fabrics, the impressive views, and the clawfoot bathtub peeking out from an adjoining bathroom. “Is it a full suite?”

“Yes! The Count has been very generous. There is a sitting room, a bedroom, and the adjoining bathroom there. I’ll use the sitting room here for fittings and sewing and prop storage and such, whilst keeping the bedroom separate and free from all the clutter. It was really quite lovely of him. Can you thank him for me?”

“Of course, my dear, though you can also thank him yourself. I find that he’s very easy to talk to, very approachable.”

“Do you now?” she said with a suggestive smirk.

Aziraphale’s entire body heated at her implication. “I— That is, I didn’t mean—”

“Relax, darling,” she said. “Only someone as close to you as I am would notice how you admire him.”

Aziraphale didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed by this statement. “I can assure you, there is nothing untoward going on between myself and Count Crowley.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “That’s a shame,” she said, patting his shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll come round.”

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, too loudly for the closeness of the room. “Rehearsals start today, it sounds like. After lunch?”

Tracy tittered at his obvious discomfort but thankfully let the subject drop. “I am a bit peckish.”

So after they finished with the suit measurements and selected local vendors to contact, they gravitated downstairs, still chatting away about costuming. Notably, there was no evidence of the ruined chandelier when they reached the first floor hall. The rug had gone as well, likely for a good cleaning. But neither Aziraphale nor Tracy remarked on it, as they made their way to the dining room for lunch. 

Unfortunately, Crowley was absent, probably either too busy running the estate or else avoiding the crowd after the morning’s incident. Surely, it had nothing to do with the abrupt way he’d left their earlier conversation. Aziraphale wondered if he’d been a bit too meddlesome, accusing Crowley of having a rare blood disease on practically no evidence. And what business of his was it even if he’d been right? He hadn’t worried about it before, but now that Crowley was absent from lunch, Aziraphale couldn’t help but be concerned that his impropriety might have made things awkward between them.

Newt walked over to Aziraphale with a plate full of white. He’d apparently selected all pale or colorless items from the buffet—bread, chicken breast, potatoes, rice. 

“Hey, Az, did you have any changes for me on those pages?” Newt asked.

Aziraphale picked up a fresh plate for Tracy and passed it over to her before taking a plate for himself. 

“I do, though nothing terribly significant. Capital job overall, young Newt. I’ve left the scripts in my room, so I’ll run up and get them after I eat.”

“Did you like the changes I made to the death scene?”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, dear boy. There is quite a lot of death in our story.”

Aziraphale and Newt were knee-deep in conversation about the script when Anathema joined the group, serving herself from the buffet table and taking a seat between Tracy and Michael. Aziraphale noticed how Newt’s eyes flicked up when she came in and then immediately down at his plate again. Aziraphale had to repeat himself three times before Newt finally heard him.

Aziraphale nudged the boy with his elbow. “Why don’t you go and talk to her?”

“Who? What? Me? I have no one to— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale insisted, cutting his gaze towards Anathema to make his meaning crystal clear. “She’s a very nice young lady.”

Newt shrugged, his cheeks stained vermillion. “I have nothing of interest to say.”

“That’s absolutely not true. You work in moving pictures! You’re American! You’re…”

Newt gave him a sardonic look through his glasses.

“You’re a fine looking young man?” Aziraphale offered, but it didn’t seem to help.

After lunch, as promised, Aziraphale made his way back up to his room to retrieve the edited scripts. As he passed the west library, he couldn’t resist ducking in to take a turn around the place. He still hadn’t managed the time for a proper visit, so he resolved to make a concerted effort to explore it further that evening after rehearsal.

As he passed the heavy oak desk under the window, he saw a thin, green volume laying on its own on the blotter. It seemed odd to be so positioned, as if someone had only paused in reading it to run an errand with every intent to come back later. While there were many, many other books, each one stood in its place on the shelves lining the walls. There wasn’t a single book on the various end tables floating next to armchairs about the room, nor on the floor, nor even on the desk save for this one.

The book seemed to call to him, even more so than the other books that piqued his interest. Which was even more notable, because there was not a word visible on the cover to indicate the contents therein.

Leaning closer, Aziraphale reached out and touched the cover. A thrill skated up his spine as the smooth texture slid under his fingertips. When he reached the edge, he followed the impulse to pick it up. As he opened it, his heart pounded with anticipation. 

There was nothing on the first page apart from a pressed and dried daisy still perfectly preserved in the crease of the spine. He turned the page and the clean, slanted handwriting began without preamble. As if its writer were merely continuing the narrative from a previous installment. 

_the tutor to meet Death in the glade. There were more than enough clouds to shield me from the sun, and I simply couldn’t contain my news any longer. He will be deliriously happy. Or he said he would be. It’s not that I doubt him, but I cannot help hearing my brother’s admonitions in my head—do not trust, fear conquers love. He does not understand. And maybe he cannot. I call him Death, for pity’s sake, and for a reason. He will either be with me till death or be the instrument of it. I have Seen it, as I See so many things. More and more everyday. I wonder if my newest secret is the cause of the reanimation of my oldest one. Regardless, all of my secrets are clamoring to be known and accepted and celebrated. But not a single one of them is safe for him to know. I must take care, says the part of me that aligns with my brother. But I must be free to live says the other, much larger part. Meanwhile I am torn..._

“Aziraphale,” Newt said from the doorway. “Are you coming? We need the scripts to start.”

“Of course, yes. Sorry. I seem to have gotten distracted.”

Without thinking too closely about his actions, Aziraphale picked up the slim volume and tucked it under his arm. Then he carried it with him as Newt accompanied him to his room.

“Are you alright?” Newt asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale responded, absently. Then he came back to himself enough to say. “Oh, yes, quite. Tickety-boo.”

* * *

“No, no, NO.”

Gabriel shouted, gripping his hair in frustration. It had been five solid hours of rehearsal, with only a single ten-minute break to get water, and the cast and crew were beginning to wilt. Aziraphale couldn’t let this go on.

“Gabriel,” he said in a tone usually reserved for coaxing dangerous animals back into cages. “This is only the first rehearsal in a strange new place. Why don’t we give the cast some time to absorb your notes. We have as much time as we need, I’m sure.” 

To which Gabriel responded with a menacing glare.

“Shadwell, I need three-hundred percent less gesticulating from you. And Mary, you call that acting?”

“I beg your pardon,” Mary Loquacious said, clearly affronted. “This is exactly how I’d behave if I’d just been cursed with vampirism and then branded with a holy object.”

“No one cares how you would react. We want to see how Mina would react. And I am telling you, she would throw herself to the floor weeping. So throw yourself to the floor weeping! And I want to see real tears, or you’re fired.”

“Mr. Gray!”

Everyone turned simultaneously to behold a thundercloud version of Count Antonin Crowley, glowering at one Gabriel Gray.

“Dinner is served,” Crowley said, his tone as cold as icebergs in a cut-glass sea.

The group broke up at once, as if they’d suddenly been loosed from their moorings. Gabriel, though, was more cross than ever. He smiled a shark’s smile at Crowley as he passed.

“Don’t ever interrupt my rehearsals again,” Gabriel said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

Crowley did not seem the least impressed. If anything, he looked even more disgusted. But he let Gabriel pass without comment, before turning to Aziraphale.

“I had other priorities today, but I can see that my little chat with your producer is overdue.”

Aziraphale sighed, so tired his eyes were sore. Was this really only the second day? It seemed as if he’d stepped off the train weeks ago.

“He seems more on edge than usual,” Aziraphale admitted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Too much power over people, too little knowledge of how to handle it. Among other things, I’m sure.”

Then he turned to leave, gesturing for Aziraphale to accompany him.

“He calls you Sunshine?” Crowley asked, sounding nonchalant.

“Yes. It’s a nickname I don’t particularly care for.”

“I see.” Crowley walked in a silence for a few slow steps before continuing. “Would you prefer if I called you something other than ‘angel?”

“No!” Aziraphale cried, whirling to face Crowley and laying a too-familiar hand on Crowley’s forearm. “I mean, no, please. I like it when you call me ‘angel.’” Then he pulled away again just as quickly. Not need to make things any more awkward than he already had. 

They walked another few steps in silence before Crowley said, almost hesitantly, “I’m relieved to hear it, as I like calling you ‘angel.’”

Aziraphale’s reckless heart soared straight out of his chest. 

“Well, that’s settled then,” he said shyly. And before he could say anything else, they arrived at the dining hall. 

Dinner was a working affair, it seemed, with everyone wanting notes on their performances. Aziraphale was afraid that poor Crowley would be bored to tears, but he seemed not to be paying any attention to the proceedings at all. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s gaze on him several times throughout the meal, but he always looked quickly away when he realized Aziraphale had spotted him.

If Crowley was engrossed in other thoughts, Anathema was the opposite. She was riveted by the discussion of acting and blocking and lighting and set design and wardrobe and all the other aspects of making a moving picture. The only times she seemed distracted were when she happened to catch sight of Newt when he wasn’t looking. It seemed young Newt might have more hope in that department than he assumed.

By the end of the meal, everyone was full and exhausted. Or maybe it was only Aziraphale who was full and exhausted. But he was so full and exhausted that surely the others could feel it by association.

“Well, I'm knackered,” Shadwell said, lumbering to his feet with a lusty yawn. “I’m away up for a kip.”

“I’m for bed as well,” Tracy said, following Shadwell’s lead.

Then almost as a group, the others joined the exodus.

“Rehearsal directly after breakfast. No excuses.”

A general low grumble of ascent met this remark, but it was apparently satisfying enough of a response for Gabriel. 

“I believe I will turn in, too,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, before he realized he should probably have addressed that statement to Gabriel, his actual supervisor. Judging by the scowl on Gabriel’s face, Gabriel had noticed the oversight as well.

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley said, then flicked a warning look at Gabriel.

As Gabriel was the last person aside from Crowley and Anathema in the room, Aziraphale thought maybe Crowley would like to have that chat with Gabriel. Not wanting Anathema to be inconvenienced by such a conversation, Aziraphale decided to draw her discreetly away.

“My dear, would you be so kind as to escort me to the second floor? I have a question about a book I found in the west library that I’d like to pose to you.”

“Of course,” Anathema replied, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin and then rising gracefully to her feet. “How may I be of assistance?”

Within moments, Anathema had rounded the end of the table and slid her arm into Aziraphale’s. He led her out of the room and out of earshot of Crowley and Gabriel. After checking that they hadn’t been followed, Aziraphale whispered an explanation to his companion.

“Thank you for indulging me, dear girl. I thought that Crowley and Gabriel might wish to hash out some business, and I didn’t want you to be caught awkwardly in the middle.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Well, I suppose I should thank you.”

“It is of no moment. Though I really do have a question about a book I found in the library. I thought it might be yours, actually. Green cover? The personal account of, I believe, a young woman…?”

“It doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, sounding puzzled. “Although I am the first to admit that I haven’t read a tenth of all the books contained in the library. And that is still quite a lot.”

“I meant that I rather thought it might be _your_ account. A journal of sorts? It is handwritten, and in first person. I have yet to come across any names.”

Anathema shook her head. “I am not much for writing, I’m afraid. Only reading. I’ve never kept a journal, though I wish I did.”

“How odd,” he said. “The book was lying on the desk, as if someone had just been reading it.”

“Perhaps Crowley? Or one of the other guests?”

“I suppose that’s possible. I will ask. Thank you.”

By then, Anathema had walked him all the way to his door. 

“May I ask you something?” Anathema said, seeming suddenly nervous.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “You may always ask me anything.”

“Do you like it here?”

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback. What a strange question to seem nervous about. 

“I love it here,” he answered truthfully. “It’s the loveliest and most interesting home I’ve ever visited.”

“Do you miss your home?”

Aziraphale thought about his tiny flat on the fringes of Hollywood, about his noisy neighbors and his almost complete lack of friends, besides Newt and Tracy. 

“Not overly,” he hedged, not wanting to sound as pathetic as he probably was. “I travel a lot, so I haven’t really set down any roots.”

“Do you want to?”

Aziraphale studied her as she fidgeted with her sleeve cuffs and chewed her lower lip. His answer was important to her, but he couldn’t fathom why. 

“I suppose,” he said at last. “Where is this all leading?”

“Oh, nowhere. I was just-just curious.”

“I see,” he said, injecting as much skepticism into his tone as he could while remaining polite.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” she said as she started to move away. Then she stopped and turned back. “Actually, one more question.”

“Yes?”

“What can you tell me about Newt?”

Aziraphale smiled in delight at the question, telling her as much as he dared without giving away anything too personal. Finally, Anathema moved on with one final goodnight, and Aziraphale shut his door against the outside world and let himself sag for a moment against the frame. He was exhausted, and yet an electricity buzzed underneath his skin that wouldn’t let him settle quite yet.

He abandoned his suit for his pajamas with a grateful swish of cool fabric against overheated skin. Once again, the image of Crowley bathed in firelight appeared as if branded to the backs of his eyelids. He couldn’t get enough of watching the Count just sitting and looking delicious, and parts of himself that he ignored most of the time were beginning to make themselves known.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. But after all, what harm would it do? It might help him exorcise some of the pent up emotion that seemed to be causing mischief in his midsection whenever he happened to catch sight of Crowley.

So he finished his nightly ablutions and crawled between the sheets, towel in hand. And as he began to stroke himself, he pictured Crowley in a billowy white shirt, open to his navel, tight pants and sunglasses, pushing him up against the castle wall, but not stopping there, not stopping, kissing, those hard lips on his, taking and giving, dominating and supporting, his hands roaming…oh, God.

Aziraphale stifled his whimpers as best he could, pressing his lips together as he worked himself up to the brink.

And then a knock sounded at the door.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Aziraphale swore under his breath, fighting the panic of knowing that he’d have to open his door while hiding an erection.

He slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Maybe if he was extremely quiet, whoever it was would just go away. He pressed his ear to the door to try and discern if the person who had knocked was still on the other side.

The knock came again, louder this time. And as it was right near his ear, Aziraphale startled back in alarm, pressing a hand over his tripping heart. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to open the door.

As he did so, he was careful to keep his lower half well hidden behind it. And of course, who would be standing there but the worst person imaginable, Crowley himself.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said with a tremulous smile. 

“Sorry to disturb y—” Crowley began.

“No, no. I wasn’t doing anything.” He winced. “I mean, no disruption at all. How can I help you?”

A shrewd grin curved across Crowley’s face. “I wanted to let you know that I spoke with Gabriel and told him in no uncertain terms that his behavior towards you has been unacceptable and that it needs to stop. You are to let me know if he bothers you again.”

“Oh, my dear. I do appreciate that, and I hope you mentioned the others as well? He was treating Mary quite abominably this evening.”

“I did extend the reach of my comments to include the cast, crew, and my staff. However, you were my main concern, and the most explicit example of his boorish behavior that I have thus far witnessed.”

“Of course, and I am grateful for your intercession. Gabriel is difficult to deal with at the best of times. And now, for some reason, he seems beyond even his usual levels of vexation. I cannot tell what is distressing him, but I will try to find out. If I can manage to alleviate it, maybe some of his bad temper will disappear.”

“Alleviating his distress is not your responsibility. It is his duty to control his actions, regardless of his emotions.”

“I suppose you are right.” Then a boldness seized him, and his mouth opened of its own volition. “Is that the…er…only reason you stopped by?”

“Were you expecting something else…angel?” Crowley answered, languid and sultry, the tone itself caressing Aziraphale and making him shiver. And while he hadn’t moved an inch, Crowley’s entire body seemed to thrum like a cello string, taut over the bridge and plucked, so that sound and vibration shook through every molecule of matter in the room.

“You…um…” Aziraphale’s brain felt fuzzy and warm. He hardly knew his own thoughts as he stood mesmerized by the man on the other side of the door. He wanted to invite Crowley in. All he had to do was say the words. _Invite me in. Invite me in. Invite me in._

That couldn’t be right. Aziraphale was already in. It was Crowley who needed to be invited, right? Aziraphale shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Such a strange sensation. He blinked a few times, and the compulsion, if compulsion it was, lessened immediately. 

“Good night, angel,” Crowley said, his voice more matter-of-fact and…contrite? “I will see you in the morning.”

“Of course, dear,” he said, wisps of bemusement still clinging to his thoughts. “I look forward to it.”

Then with a final nod, Crowley backed away from the door, and turned to go. Aziraphale closed the door with a quiet, regretful click, and stumbled back to his bed.

It was only when the weight of the comforter brushed his still-hard erection that Aziraphale remembered what he’d been doing prior to Crowley’s visit. And, well, now he had even more fodder for fantasy, didn’t he?

He picked up where he left off, this time imagining he’d been brave enough to invite Crowley into his room, had been brave enough to kiss him, had been brave enough to take him into this very bed. It took mere moments for Aziraphale to climax, stifling his gasps and moans into a pillow.

Finally spent, he quickly cleaned himself up and crawled back into bed, falling asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

And it seemed like he’d been dreaming for mere minutes when the peace of the sleeping castle was irrevocably shattered by a resounding, agonized scream.


	5. Chapter 5

“Good lord!” Aziraphale said as he lurched out of bed, stumbling to the wardrobe for his dressing gown. He heard shouts from the corridor as he rushed out of his room. 

“What is it?” he asked Shadwell as the man lumbered past.

“I dinnae ken, laddie. It sounded like it were comin’ from Mary’s room.”

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, certain that he looked as bleary as he felt, and followed Shadwell down the hall to an adjoining wing.

Crowley was already there, wearing a long, richly brocaded red and black dressing gown in a snake motif with black fur trim that hugged his form. He put a key in the lock, holding a lamp high to dispel the night gloom.

“Crowley, what’s happened?” Aziraphale asked as other members of cast and crew arrived, looking nervous as rabbits in the darkened corridor.

“I know as much as you, angel,” Crowley said, rattling the door hard to open it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gabriel, looking far more alert and sharply dressed than anyone else as he appeared round the corner.

“We were about to find out,” Crowley said as he entered the pitch-black room, lamp held in front of him.

Aziraphale followed close on his heels, ready to provide backup if necessary. The others crowded in behind him.

As the lamplight reached the bed, it illuminated a very still, peaceful, perhaps sleeping Mary Loquacious. Only she couldn’t still be sleeping with all the racket the new arrivals had been making. Crowley descended the two steps leading from the door to the sunken floor of the room. Upon reaching her bed, Crowley placed a hand on her arm. Aziraphale slid next to him to wait for the pronouncement he knew was coming and yet hoped like Heaven he was wrong.

“She’s dead,” Crowley said to the room, his tone expressionless. 

A collective gasp swept through the others as they milled about by the door.

“Are you sure?” Gabriel asked as he strode in, sounding more inconvenienced than concerned.

“Quite sure,” Crowley said. “She is still warm to the touch, which means she can’t have been dead long.”

“The scream happened only minutes ago,” Newt said. “Ten minutes at most.”

“What could possibly have killed her? She’s just lying there,” Tracy said, her voice thick with tears. Aziraphale would have gone to comfort her, but Shadwell had put his arm around her, so he stayed put, feeling relieved. He didn’t want to leave Crowley’s side.

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, still even and cool. Aziraphale longed to know the thoughts running through his mind, but the man was stoic as a stone. Aziraphale would have to get him alone.

Anathema came in then, striding to the side of the bed and laying a black shawl over Mary’s face.

“We should call the coroner. Everyone should return to their beds,” she said, taking charge. “We won’t solve the mystery in the middle of the night.”

Aziraphale nodded. She was correct, of course, and he should help her shepherd the guests out from under foot.

“She’s quite right, everyone. We must do as she says. There will be plenty of time to settle affairs in the morning.”

“Settle affairs?” Sandalphon said, looking a pale sort of green in his shock. “One of us has _died_. Any of us could be next!.”

“You are quite safe here, I promise,” Anathema told him. “The only logical explanation is that her death was accidental. Perhaps she ate something that didn’t agree with her.”

“Didn’t agree with her?” Sandalphon continued. “She died within minutes! That was no random dyspepsia.”

“Nevertheless, standing around here debating it is not doing anyone any good,” Anathema insisted. “You must go back to your quarters. Make room for the coroner to do his work. Go.”

Aziraphale nodded curtly. “The young lady of the house has asked us for our cooperation, and I believe we owe it to her to go.”

“We should quit this place entirely, is what we should do,” Uriel said. “We can’t stay in a house with a murderer.”

“Hang on,” Aziraphale objected loudly. “No one said anything about a murder. Something happened to Mary, that’s clear. But we do not know any more than that. And in any case, we need to stay to make ourselves available for questioning. The police won’t want us scattering to the wind when they may need our observations to piece together what happened.”

“Then you _do_ think it’s a murder,” Uriel said. 

“No! I just meant… Oh, never mind. Everyone back to their rooms, please. Until breakfast.”

Tracy and Shadwell at least turned to take his suggestion. Newt was too caught up in staring worriedly at Anathema, as if he wanted to say something and was working out how to do so. The others milled about uncertainly until Gabriel finally shooed them out, following along behind them. Aziraphale started to leave as well, but then Crowley called out to him.

“Actually, angel, if you wouldn’t mind staying behind a moment.”

“Of course, dear,” he said, returning to Crowley’s side. “Whatever you need.”

After the door had shut and the footsteps faded, leaving only Crowley, Anathema, and poor Mary, Crowley dropped the veneer and allowed the worry to show on his face.

“Is there anything I can d—?”

“It was cyanide poisoning, angel.”

“Cyanide?” Aziraphale said, startled. “How can you be sure?”

“I can’t be entirely sure without proper diagnosis, but the almond scent permeating the room as well as the unusual pink tone to her skin would suggest that probability.”

“So, you are saying…?”

“She was murdered, yes. And we have no idea by whom or why. Or at least I don’t. Do you?”

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. “I really don’t. I didn’t know Mary well. She was new to the company for this production specifically. Oh, good lord. Who will play Mina?”

“That is perhaps less a concern than ferreting out her killer. Especially if he or she intends to kill again.”

“Yes, of course.”

Crowley paced the room while Anathema used her oil lamp to provide light.

“I need you to be watchful of the cast and crew.”

“Do you mean to suggest that one of them might be the killer?”

“Gabriel did have a row with her only last night,” Crowley pointed out. “And truly, it could be anyone at this point.”

“Even me?” Aziraphale asked.

“I trust you, angel,” Crowley said, ceasing pacing long enough to look deep into Aziraphale’s eyes. Even with the dark glasses, Aziraphale could feel that gaze pouring deep into his soul. “I don’t trust many, but I trust you.”

“Leaving aside whether that is warranted or not,” Aziraphale said. “What am I meant to be looking for?”

“Any abnormal behavior, any absences, anything suspicious.”

“Might it have been one of the staff?”

“It might. Anathema and I will question each individually to learn what we can.”

“Should I question my people as well?”

“If you like,” Crowley said. “I’m sure they would not feel comfortable with either myself or Anathema doing so.”

“What about the police?”

“The village has a part-time volunteer force, none of whom will come here. Even the coroner is shared among several villages. It could take him an hour to get here, or a day, depending on his location.”

Aziraphale rubbed his face tiredly.

“Go to bed, angel,” Crowley said, his voice tender. “It will keep till morning.”

“I don’t want…” Aziraphale stopped himself before he said anything he couldn’t take back.

Crowley stepped closer, brushing a displaced curl from Aziraphale’s forehead. Aziraphale’s heart clenched, and before he knew it, he’d leaned in and crushed Crowley to his chest. The air rushed out of Crowley in a whoosh, and for a long moment, Aziraphale relished the feel of the fur trim against his cheek, the man’s wiry frame against his solid one, two pounding hearts where before there had been one. Then, just as Crowley’s arms came round to circle him in return, Aziraphale pulled abruptly back.

“Sorry,” he said in a rush, his cheeks heating in the darkness. “I should go. Call on me if you have need.”

Then he slipped out of the room as quickly as he dared, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

* * *

Aziraphale slept horribly the remainder of the night. At an hour before dawn, he gave up the enterprise entirely and turned up the lamp to read. As he shuffled through the books on the bedside table, he accidentally knocked the slim green journal to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and felt a tingle race up his arm as he touched the cover. 

Intrigued, he opened to the first page again and began reading. And he read, and read, and read, until it was far past time to be up and getting ready for breakfast. But the narrative was so compelling that he could hardly put the thing down to get dressed. He kept sneaking glances at it as he buttoned his waistcoat, such that he mis-buttoned it three times before getting it right. 

Apart from being a bit digressive here and there, as most journals are wont to be, it was really a quite nice and accurate recounting of a young woman’s experience in what, as far as Aziraphale could tell from descriptions of dress and political matters, was the mid-seventeenth century. She had clearly lived here at the castle, for her descriptions of the structures and grounds were so vivid and specific that Aziraphale felt now as if he knew them as intimately as she did. 

But even more interesting than that, she was a young woman who believed herself to be possessed by powers of prophecy, and more than a few secrets, one of which was that she was with child. And from what she communicated in her journal entries, the man in question was of low birth and would never be accepted by her family as a viable suitor. 

What intrigued Aziraphale was that the true objection from her family wasn’t that the fellow was in want of a title, but that he was not initiated into some long-held family secret. As such, he could not be trusted. The secret had not been explicitly stated on the page, and Aziraphale found himself quite impatient to discover it. 

He’d become so absorbed in the story, that he’d nearly forgotten about Mary, until breakfast when Crowley once again pulled him aside to ask a favor.

“Angel, I need you to take the coroner in to examine the body.”

“Shouldn’t you be there to answer any questions he has?”

“I am sure you know as much as I do about the case,” Crowley said. “And I need to continue my interviews with the staff before rumors get out of hand, and it becomes ever more difficult to separate accounts. Please, angel. I can’t entrust something this important to anyone else.”

“I will be happy to do so, of course, if you think I would be of use,” Aziraphale said, the memory of their earlier embrace surfacing at the least opportune moment. 

“Thank you,” he said, worry flashing briefly across his features. “I will make it up to you.”

“There is nothing to make up,” Aziraphale said. “Mary is—was—one of our troupe, so it is well within my purview to aid in resolving the matter. Poor Mary.”

“Aziraphale, be careful,” Crowley said, his hand twitching as if it had wanted to move of its own accord to touch Aziraphale. “Whoever killed her is most likely still in the castle, and the weather is turning.”

Aziraphale looked through the window to see a perfectly pleasant fall day. There were a few clouds dappling the sky, but nothing ominous looking.

“Trust me,” Crowley said. “I’ve lived in these mountains long enough to know the feel of a storm rolling in. It’ll be a day or two more at the most. And if it traps us here…”

“Then it traps the murderer as well,” Aziraphale said, nodding. “I will take care, dear boy.”

“Angel, I—”

“Count Crowley.”

Hastur had come up behind Crowley without Aziraphale noticing, so absorbed was he in Crowley’s words of warning. But now Aziraphale regarded the butler with more awareness. If everyone in the castle was a suspect, then perhaps he ought to begin taking note more often of their whereabouts at all times, their overall manner and emotional state, as well as any oddities or anything outside of normal routine. Though for his part, Hastur seemed as unflappable and disdainful as usual. 

“Yes?” Crowley said with a sigh.

“The coroner is here.”

“Show him into Mary Loquacious’s bedchamber. Aziraphale will accompany you.”

“Sir,” Hastur said in acknowledgement and turned to leave at once.

Aziraphale spared a longing glance for the dishes on the sideboard he’d yet to sample before following Hastur out to the hall.

The coroner was a ferret-looking fellow with black hair greased close to his skull and a hooked nose. He seemed pleasant enough, once Hastur had made introductions. Then once again, Aziraphale trekked up the stairs and down the corridor to Mary’s room, where presumably her body still lay. Aziraphale felt a frisson of apprehension as the door opened on soundless hinges. It was as if the castle itself were holding its breath.

Hastur took his leave at the doorway, so Aziraphale led the way into the room. Without a blink, the coroner approached the bed and leaned over Mary’s body, removing Anathema’s shawl, presumably to examine the body more closely.

Almost at once, Aziraphale noticed something he hadn’t before—two small puncture wounds about two inches apart, a dribble of blood from the lower one dried upon her neck.

“The count said there was a smell of almonds in the air when you found her?”

“Indeed, there was. And her skin was reddened. Count Crowley believes—”

“I am more interested in what was directly observed than in any conclusions that were drawn.”

“Understood,” Aziraphale said. “Then, yes. Almonds. It was quite strong.”

“Was there any burning on the grounds or in the castle yesterday evening anywhere near this room?”

“I don’t believe so.”

The coroner took a stethoscope from his bag and placed the funnel end over the body’s chest.

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale continued. “But I was wondering about the wounds in her neck.”

The coroner looked at them briefly and shook his head. “They are not the cause of death. Barely nicked the skin. I will know more after the autopsy.”

“I see.”

“Was the body moved?”

“Not at all, that I am aware of. We found her like this.”

The coroner made several notes in a small notebook that he continually took out of and returned to his bag between notations. Once he’d finished his examination, he sent Aziraphale to call for assistance to remove the body to his horse-drawn hearse. Hastur and Ligur answered the summons, and between the four of them, they managed to relocate Mary’s sheet-wrapped body without incident.

Through unspoken understanding, no rehearsals were held that day, so Aziraphale found himself at loose ends. At first, he thought he’d return to his room to finish reading the journal. He was fairly certain he was coming to the end of the account, as the tension had reached a breaking point when he’d set the volume down.

But it occurred to him then that it was rather odd that Gabriel had not insisted on some sort of productive endeavor, especially given his attitude of late. He hadn’t even mentioned it. No one had had to cajole him into letting them recover from the shock. He had not breathed a word of reproach or lament at the loss of an entire day due to the tragedy, let alone the loss of the lone feminine star of the show. For Gabriel to be so reticent was not like him at all. 

So on a whim, Aziraphale changed trajectory and headed towards Gabriel’s room, which was in another wing entirely from Aziraphale’s. He’d had to ask the maid—Deirdre?—for directions as he hadn’t visited this part of the castle since Crowley had given him the tour, and he couldn’t quite remember the way. When Aziraphale reached the door, he knocked hesitantly. If Gabriel were there, he’d have a much trickier time snooping around.

But as luck would have it, Gabriel did not answer. So Aziraphale eased open the door latch and let himself in, closing the door behind him. His heart thundered in his ears, and he did his best to focus on the task at hand, despite the near blinding anxiety at the thought of being caught invading Gabriel’s privacy. 

So he stopped in his tracks, having barely entered the room, set a calming hand over his heart and thought of Crowley. What would Crowley do? Would he be scared witless? Of course not! And he would hardly mind if Aziraphale borrowed a bit of his courage. So he inhaled a deep breath, fixed Crowley as a point in his mind, and started his search.

First, he inched over to the bedside table where several bottles of cologne of varying colors and shapes sat. He picked up each and sniffed, and then pocketed the one that most smelled like almonds. Then he rifled through Gabriel’s dresser, finding nothing more damning than a pair of mismatched socks.

The desk by the window held the real find. On it were newspaper clippings, most from other Gray productions—critical reception, news of various premieres, and so on. Next to the clippings was a typewritten letter from the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, which had funded most of Gabriel’s films. Aziraphale quickly skimmed the letter and gasped as he read the line, _pulling our funding as your next film is too similar to one we already have in progress…_

Gabriel had lost their funding for the film they were currently working on? How was he planning on paying the actors? How had he afforded the travel fare for their entire company? How were any of them going to get home?

Aziraphale felt the tide of anxiety swell again, and fought it back by conjuring Crowley’s image once more. No wonder Gabriel had been particularly nasty lately. The stress must have been overwhelming.

Next to the typewritten letter sat a handwritten one in Gabriel’s rigid script. It detailed a sensational account of Mary’s death, up to and including the wounds on her neck. The letter was unfinished, so Aziraphale had no idea what he meant to accomplish with it, but the inside address at the top of the letter indicated that Gabriel intended to send it to the _Los Angeles Examiner_ , the same newspaper the clippings had come from.

“Gabriel, what are you up to?” Aziraphale murmured.

Then a sharp sound from outside drew his attention to the window. 

Upon looking down, he was afforded a perfect view of the veranda behind the ballroom. Crowley and Anathema were at the nearest end of it to Aziraphale’s vantage point, so though he couldn’t hear what it was they were arguing about, he could see clearly that they were in fact arguing, and intensely at that.

Crowley shook his head forcefully, denying something Anathema had said or perhaps something she was asking of him. In response, Anathema grew more animated, gesticulating wildly and stomping her foot. Crowley then reacted by shouting back at her. It seemed clear that he was telling her to leave, and so she did, hefting her skirt out of the way of her feet and striding off across the veranda, head held imperiously high. Meanwhile Crowley stormed off in the opposite direction. 

Aziraphale chewed his lip, absorbing the scene he’d just witnessed only to catch sight of Newt running into Anathema at the far end of the veranda and speaking softly to her, offering her a handkerchief. Anathema accepted it, and Newt looked adorably at a loss for words. He then led her off into the garden and out of Aziraphale’s sight.

What in the blazes had that been about? Crowley could be curt at times but he’d never been cruel that Aziraphale had seen. It was an incredibly _passionate_ argument, especially between an uncle and niece…

Wait.

Oh. 

Could Anathema be Crowley’s paramour? It wasn’t uncommon for unmarried men to take mistresses, and then claim them as some relation to satisfy propriety. Anathema had claimed to have been raised in the castle, but she could have exaggerated for appearance’s sake. And it would explain why Crowley was so devastated at the idea of her leaving him.

The possibility churned Aziraphale’s stomach. The thought of Crowley taking advantage of a young woman was even worse than the thought of Crowley being involved romantically with someone. 

_Else, with someone else. Admit it to yourself at least, you coward._

Aziraphale shook off his somber thoughts. They weren’t important to the matter at hand. Gabriel was hatching some sort of plot, and may have even orchestrated Mary’s death for his own profit. Aziraphale needed to talk to someone about what he’d found, and he needed to do so soon before anyone—

The door swung open suddenly, admitting Gabriel into the room. Too late to hide, Aziraphale did the only thing he could—he improvised.

“Gabriel! You startled me,” Aziraphale said, a little too brightly. “I was looking for you.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed for a moment before a cement smile fixed itself into place. “Well, you’ve found me, Sunshine. You are in my room, because…?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“I…er…”

What did Gabriel want? What could Aziraphale give Gabriel that would justify seeking him out?

“Yes?” Gabriel prompted, his expression growing impatient.

“I found a replacement for Mary…er…in the production. Yes, that’s it.”

Gabriel seemed to be waiting for Aziraphale to say something else, but Aziraphale, in his heightened state of alarm, couldn't think what. 

“Who is it?” Gabriel finally supplied.

Aziraphale’s mind cast about for the first feminine person he could think of.

“Ah, right. It’s…er…Anathema. Crowley’s…Crowley’s niece.”

Gabriel frowned, digesting this announcement. Then he brightened suddenly, and said, “That’s fantastic. She’ll do nicely, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale’s nerves relaxed in instant relief. “Oh, yes. I think so as well. I’m sure we’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he answered with a pointed smirk.

“Well, I-I’d better go and tell her the good news.” 

Aziraphale hurried out of Gabriel’s room and back down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him without running. He didn’t stop again until he was safely ensconced in Tracy’s suite.

“Everything alright, love? You look like you’ve been through it this morning.”

Aziraphale shook his head, breathing hard. “I have,” he said. “We all have. How are you holding up?”

Tracy rubbed her arm, looking troubled. “I’m alright. Just… Poor Mary. She was such a dear.”

“Did you know her well?”

Tracy shook her head. “No, she’d only just joined the company, as you know. But we had a lovely conversation on the train ride from Bucharest.”

“I’m so sorry this has happened,” Aziraphale said, hugging her almost as much to calm his own rumpled spirit as to soothe hers.

Tracy pulled back after a moment and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. “I just don’t know what to think.”

“I’m afraid I might have an idea.”

So he explained to Tracy what he’d found in Gabriel’s room, and Tracy swore under her breath. “I knew something wasn’t right the moment I set foot on the train. His energy has been positively rancid since we left LA.”

“I don’t know that he had anything to do with Mary’s death, but he certainly appears to be using it for publicity.”

“What a pustule.”

Aziraphale laughed at that and felt another measure of tension melt from his shoulders. He knew coming to Tracy was the right move. She was steady and loyal and—

“What else is bothering you, love? There’s an umber to your aura that doesn’t seem connected to the Gabriel business.”

—and damned inconveniently insightful at times. Aziraphale sighed, helpless against Tracy’s veil-piercing gaze.

“I witnessed an argument between Crowley and Anathema,” he said, sinking into Tracy’s couch. She immediately settled in herself and poured him a cup of tea.

“It’s not the freshest,” she admitted. “But it’s warm enough. Tell me.”

So Aziraphale did. He explained what he’d seen and his realization afterward.

“Well, we don’t know if your guess is correct, do we? You will just have to ask.”

“I can’t ask!” Aziraphale said, so aghast that he nearly dropped his tea.

“There are ways of asking obliquely, love. But honestly, I don’t think anyone who looks at you the way Crowley does is interested in anyone else.”

Aziraphale scoffed at that. “How can anyone see the way he looks at anyone? He’s always wearing those damnable glasses.”

“You forget I have other methods of Seeing besides my eyes,” she teased.

“Alright, I’ll ask. Anathema. I’ll ask Anathema.”

“That will suffice,” Tracy said, laughing. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon assisting Tracy as she altered the hems of Mina’s costumes to compensate for Anathema’s greater height and filling her in on the story of the young woman whose journal he’d found in the library.

At dinner that night, Anathema and Newt were sitting next to each other and ignoring nearly everyone else around them. Aziraphale tried a few times to get Anathema alone to speak with her about how he’d promised her as Mary’s replacement and, potentially, if he found enough courage to ask, to inquire as to the true nature of her relationship with Crowley. But he was foiled each time, either by interrupting crew members, or by Crowley himself.

The man arrived at dinner looking good enough to eat. His silk shirt absorbed the light like a rippling black void, and the red sash around his waist drew Aziraphale’s attention to all the wrong places. Even Crowley’s boots were mesmerizing as they shined in the firelight.

Aziraphale blinked, pushing all other thoughts aside beyond getting food and sitting down, and then scheming to get Anathema’s attention.

Finally, as most of the company dispersed to various sitting rooms for brandies and billiards and who knew what else, Anathema rose out of her seat to retire. Aziraphale seized the moment and jumped up as well, hurrying to Anathema’s side of the table to pull her chair out for her. Anathema smiled her thanks, but before she could bid him goodnight, Aziraphale made his request.

“I wonder if I could steal a brief moment of your time, dear. I have an unusual request.”

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. If it was not jealousy he sensed in that gaze, then he was a monkey’s uncle. _Hmm_ . _Poor choice of words_.

“Of course, Aziraphale. Let’s step into the library, shall we?”

A few minutes and pleasantries later, they entered the library, and Aziraphale shut the door behind them.

“How can I help you?” she asked, and for the first time, Aziraphale could see how tired she looked.

“Are you alright, my dear? You seem weary.”

“I am. It’s been a long day. And I hardly slept last night after…”

“Yes, I do understand. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, fidgeting with a ruffle on her bodice. “Unless you have a magic broom that can fly me out of here?” she laughed at her own joke, but it was an anemic thing. Aziraphale felt suddenly guilty for adding to her burdens. “You can’t have asked to speak to me in private just for that, though?”

“No, I have a request,” he said. “I was wondering if you would step in as Mina for our production. Gabriel wants to continue, and I thought you would be perfect for—”

“Are you joking?” Anathema said, her eyes wide with shock.

“I-I wasn’t. But I understand if you are not—”

“I would love to!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together and then launching herself at Aziraphale for a hug. “I am so pleased you asked me!”

“Really?”

“Of course! What an adventure it would be to appear in a moving picture! I couldn’t be more thrilled at the prospect!”

“Oh! Well, that’s wonderful news. I had already mentioned to Gabriel that I…er…would ask you. I’m so glad the idea appeals to you.”

“I cannot tell you how much! Oh! I shall have to see Newt to get a copy of the script, won’t I?”

She started to rush past Aziraphale towards the door, but he stopped her with a quick gesture and a clearing of his throat.

“If you wouldn’t mind…I-I do have another question. It’s terribly impertinent and nosey of me, and I hesitate to ask…but…”

Anathema stood silent in anticipation of his question, but Aziraphale found himself lost as to how to broach the subject.

“You’ll have to ask it and find out,” Anathema prompted gently. 

“I…that is… I was wondering how in particular you’re related to Crowley?”

Anathema looked confused. “How do you mean, exactly?”

“Well…er…what type of uncle is he?” Aziraphale’s words were embarrassingly halting, but he couldn’t think of a more delicate way to pose the question.

“He’s the type where he was my mother’s brother. Why do you ask?”

“Oh…er…no reason, dear, none at all.” If Aziraphale blushed any harder his cheeks would light on fire.

For the second time that evening, Anathema’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh. Oh, no, no… Ew, no. Definitely not. My uncle is a confirmed bachelor.”

The emphasis she placed on _confirmed bachelor_ made Aziraphale blush even harder, which he hadn’t thought was possible.

“I have to go ask Newt for a script, but…my _uncle_ always takes his brandy in his sitting room after dinner.”

She left a very grateful Aziraphale in the library, though he didn’t stay there long. After a few wrong turns, he ended up in front of the same door he’d entered when he’d first returned to the castle. He knocked and heard the command to enter.

“Angel,” Crowley said when Aziraphale entered, looking surprised to see him. He was alone, thank goodness, and had seemed to be staring out into the night through the wall of windows behind the rows of plants. He held a glass of brandy in his hand, which seemed as yet untouched. He must have just arrived. “Can I offer you a glass of something?”

“I’d love some of whatever you’re having,” Aziraphale answered.

Crowley smiled slightly and made his way to the sideboard to pour Aziraphale a drink. He was also, notably, without his dark glasses this evening. His eyes were a brilliant amber color. Aziraphale was instantly mesmerized. So much so that he spoke without thinking.

“Your eyes are stunning, my dear. Why on earth do you hide them?”

Crowley handed the glass to Aziraphale, and was it his imagination, or did a blush stain those chiseled cheekbones?

“Part of my condition, I’m afraid,” Crowley said with a wan smile. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I meant only to compliment.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said, rubbing his serpentine tattoo where it spiraled down his jaw. “Just not used to people noticing.”

Aziraphale swallowed a quarter of his glass. Liquid courage, and all that.

“Everything alright?” Crowley asked, amusement yielding to slight concern.

“I am fine,” Aziraphale said. “I investigated Gabriel’s room, and while I didn’t find anything linking him to Mary’s death, I did find some damning evidence as regards a potential motive.”

“Tell me,” Crowley said, suddenly serious.

So Aziraphale went through it all again, this time pulling the bottle of cologne out of his pocket to show Crowley when he arrived at that part of the story.

“Are you mad?” Crowley shouted, snatching the bottle from Aziraphale’s hand. “You smelled it without even _thinking_? If it had been cyanide, you could have died!”

“I didn’t spray it. And I hardly think Gabriel would have kept it lying around like that if it were dangerous.”

Crowley set the bottle down on the sideboard and grabbed Aziraphale’s arms. “Still, I told you to take care. Not to go investigating potentially dangerous people all on your own without telling a single soul you were doing so.”

“I was fine. I _am_ fine, Crowley.”

Crowley, regrettably, dropped his hands. “I can’t help it, angel. If anything happened to you, I…I…”

“You what?” Aziraphale said, pressing Crowley the way Crowley always pressed him.

“I…”

Crowley’s expression flashed into anguish for a moment before he cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is where we earn our E rating, folks. These last two chapters are pretty much S-M-U-T with a teeny bit of plot now and then to break it up. If that's not your thing, skip about the first half of this chapter and the second half of the next chapter.

Aziraphale should have broken the kiss. He should have stepped back, put distance between them, demanded Crowley explain himself. But Aziraphale did none of those things. He whimpered with the rush of desire that flooded his veins. He wrapped his arms around Crowley to pull him deeper into the kiss, pressing closer into Crowley’s devilish lips. He let himself get lost in the pressure of Crowley’s kiss, eyes closed, thoughts unmoored, floating in a galaxy of stars.

Then he was moving. His eyes popped open as Crowley pushed him up against the wall, just as he had when he’d rescued him from the chandelier, just as he had in Aziraphale’s fantasies. Only it was far, far better than any fantasy could ever be. 

Crowley tasted of brandy and brimstone. His tongue was serpentine and strong, just like the rest of him. He was temptation incarnate, and Aziraphale would drown before he ever drank his fill.

Crowley groaned the word _angel_ into Aziraphale’s skin as he kissed his throat, and Aziraphale could barely control his need. He wanted Crowley’s hands everywhere. He wanted Crowley’s mouth on his chest, his belly, his thighs. He wanted Crowley’s...

The unmistakable sound of a bolt sliding home brought Aziraphale out of his haze enough to notice his surroundings. Crowley had maneuvered them close enough to the door to manipulate the lock. Which hopefully meant he intended to continue doing these delightful things to Aziraphale, and with any luck, a few more besides.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Angel,” Crowley responded, unraveling Aziraphale’s tartan bow tie with a simple twist of his nimble fingers. Oh, how Aziraphale wanted those fingers inside him. His body burned for it as if he’d never wanted anything more. But he couldn’t just let it go. He had to say something

“Crowley, wait, wait. We need to talk about this.”

Crowley growled but reluctantly pulled his head up from where he had been sucking on Aziraphale’s collar bone, his hands still fisted in Aziraphale’s partially unbuttoned shirt. He looked reproachfully at Aziraphale, as if Aziraphale were depriving him of a treasured treat.

“First of all, I-I very much want you to keep doing what you’re doing, but what are you doing exactly? What do you want?”

“I should think that to be fairly obvious.”

“It’s not obvious. We haven’t known each other long. I have no idea whether you want...just a fling?” Aziraphale winced at his own use of the word. “Or something more lasting?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?”

“Because I...I...don’t want to get my heart entangled if I can’t...if I can’t have yours,” he finished in a small voice.

Crowley made some sort of strangled sound deep in his throat. 

“I can’t leave, angel. And I won’t doom you to stay.”

“What if I don’t mind staying?” 

“You would grow bored of me.”

“The likelihood of that, my dear boy, is quite nonexistent, I assure you.”

“And yet, as you just pointed out, you barely know me. How can you say you won’t grow tired of such a narrow life? That you won’t miss your adventures, traveling from one location to the next?”

A thought occurred to Aziraphale then. Was this why Anathema had asked him whether he wanted to put down roots? Had she known how Aziraphale felt, what Crowley would fear? 

“Traveling is not who I am,” Aziraphale said. “Adventure is not what I crave.”

Crowley bent his head again to Aziraphale’s throat, hovering just over his pulse point.

“What do you crave, angel?”

“A room full of books...”

Crowley’s tongue flicked across the cords in Aziraphale’s neck,

“A mug of hot cocoa...”

Crowley’s teeth grazed his skin, goading Aziraphale’s pulse to trip faster.

“And you.”

Crowley plastered his body against Aziraphale’s, ripping the rest of his shirt clean off as he sucked bruises into Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale squealed in surprise. “Careful, dear! Don’t hurt yourself.”

Crowley growled again. “I am not easily hurt, so stop fretting. I want you on the chaise.”

“I suppose I can manage that,” Aziraphale said with an anticipatory wiggle as he headed towards the indicated couch.

Crowley miracled a fur blanket from somewhere as Aziraphale climbed onto the chaise. He flung it over Aziraphale before he heaped another two logs on the fire. Then he joined Aziraphale, crawling beneath the blanket.

“Warm enough?” he asked, continuing his ministrations to Aziraphale’s throat and chest.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley sucked on his nipple.

By now, there was no mistaking Crowley’s erection, even through the restrictive tightness of his trousers.

“I want you...” Aziraphale said breathily, barely conscious that he was even speaking.

“You want me to what?” Crowley asked, sucking the other nipple.

“I want you to thrust your cock into me.”

“ _F-fuck_ , angel,” Crowley said, shuddering.

“That’s rather the idea, my love.”

“ _F-fuck_ , angel,” Crowley repeated. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Like what? Cock?”

Crowley visibly shuddered again, eyes closing in what could either have been an expression of acute pain or of euphoric ecstasy.

“Not that— _love_. Not unless you mean it.”

“You are making love to me, are you not? Or is my interpretation of events completely inaccurate?”

“Ngk... Yessss...” Crowley hissed, eyes still closed.

“I do not let just anyone take me, Crowley. I will only give myself to someone care deeply about. Even if I’ve only known that someone a few days.”

“Aziraphale...”

“Yes, my love?” he said, threading his hands through Crowley’s hair, tracing the ophidian tattoo next to Crowley’s ear.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Crowley said haltingly, as if the words were difficult to get out.

“Convenient, then, that I’m not going anywhere at present.”

“It’s the _at present_ that concerns me.”

Aziraphale sighed and leaned up to take Crowley’s lips again in a kiss less stoked by the fires of desperation than kindled by the lamplight of reassurance.

“Perhaps I am not making myself clear,” Aziraphale said. “This place calls to me. I feel more at home here than anywhere I have ever lived. And I have never felt more safe—murderous guest included—than I do when I’m with you. And I will never tire of you. It is not in my nature to do so.”

“But…?” Crowley said warily.

“But whether it is in _your_ nature, with your life-long history as a lone wolf, to form the sort of attachment I...well...no matter. I will not sacrifice today on the altar of tomorrow.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale unaccountably tighter, so much so that Aziraphale had some difficulty drawing breath.

“I wasn’t always a lone wolf. I only live this way out of circumstance.”

“So noted,” Aziraphale said, kissing the tip of Crowley’s nose. “And we have a whole month to revisit this conversation, but at the moment, there are other parts of me that would like your attention.”

Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale could feel the vibration of it in his own chest. He shivered in delight, as Crowley resumed course, sucking blooms of pleasure across Aziraphale’s abdomen, unfastening Aziraphale’s trousers and working them off while Aziraphale did his best to toe off his shoes. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale’s hands were busy as well, tugging Crowley’s shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and over his shoulders. His chest, though narrower than Aziraphale’s, was no less powerful, corded with muscle and dusted with hair as red as the hair on his head. Aziraphale shivered again, spreading his fingers across those strong shoulders, feeling the muscles in his back ripple as Crowley pushed himself lower. 

He attacked Aziraphale’s thighs next, now that they were available. Aziraphale groaned in desperation, his hips bucking as instinct took over. His cock was still imprisoned in soft cloth, but Crowley made quick work of that as well. He released Aziraphale’s cock with a reverent curse, stroking it tantalizingly with a single finger from base to tip.

“My God, angel, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he arched into the touch. It wasn’t nearly enough, and yet it was _perfect_.

“Please,” he begged, fumbling the word. “Please, more…”

Crowley replaced the finger with his tongue, sampling Aziraphale’s cock as if were a fine wine, just a sip and no more.

Aziraphale groaned in frustration. He knew Crowley was teasing him into even greater hardness, but Aziraphale already felt as if he were ready to burst. He panted and squirmed at Crowley’s too light ministrations.

“ _Please,_ Crowely,” he whimpered.

And finally, finally, Crowley pulled away enough to divest himself of his own trousers, pulling his cock free and thrusting it against Aziraphale’s hip. 

“Do you have any idea how badly I want to bury myself inside you?” Crowley rasped in Aziraphale’s ear. “I want to feel your body clench around me, spasming with your own release and thus bringing me to mine.”

“Oh, God, Crowley, I want that too.”

“First, I want you to touch me,” he said, guiding Aziraphale’s hand to his own cock. “I want you to know what I feel like before I slide inside you.”

Aziraphale eagerly clasped his hand around Crowley’s shaft, absorbing the sensations of heat and hardness, of strength and breadth, of roughness and softness, as he held his hand still, narrowing the diameter of his hold as Crowley fucked into his hand. Pre-cum dripped from the tip of Crowley’s cock onto Aziraphale’s fingers, easing the friction just enough and coating the shaft in natural lubricant.

“Does that feel good, my love?” Aziraphale asked, his voice husky with lust.

“Ngk, y-yes, _fuck_ , angel. Roll over.”

Aziraphale hastened to obey, and as he did, Crowley positioned himself behind Aziraphale, reaching between his legs to stroke Aziraphale’s shaft to the tip, from whence he gathered the slickness beading there. He spread the pre-cum on his own fingers and used them to explore Aziraphale’s cleft, searching for Aziraphale’s entrance.

“You smell so good,” Crowley said, thrusting his hips lightly against Aziraphale’s arse, as he found the pucker of muscle and eased a finger inside, up to the first knuckle. “Alright, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale squeaked, leaning into the intrusion. It had been a few years since he’d done this, but it hardly mattered under Crowley’s expert attentions. Aziraphale could have been a virgin and still felt completely safe and taken care of. Crowley’s touch held the ideal balance between gentleness and command.

“Just a little more…” Crowley coaxed. Then he slid a second finger in. Aziraphale hissed at the burn of it, then settled into it, begging for a few thrusts of Crowley’s fingers by pushing back against Crowley’s hand, whimpering at the intensity of the sensation.

“You want me to--?” Crowley asked just as he brushed against the bundle of nerves inside Aziraphale. Aziraphale cried out involuntarily, biting his tongue against the pleas for _more, yes, that again, and again, and again!_ that filled his mouth _._

Crowley must have somehow heard his silent begging, for he obliged Aziraphale, brushing the same spot over and over until Aziraphale was shaking with need.

“I think you are ready,” Crowley said at last. “But you must confirm that for me, angel. Do you want me to continue? To enter you with my cock? To take you, as you said earlier?”

“I do, I do, God, _please_ , Crowley. _Now_.”

So Crowley’s fingers slid out, and less than a second later, his cock slid in, the tip alone at first until Aziraphale was babbling at him to _move_ , damn it. Crowley had the nerve to laugh wickedly at that, gripping Aziraphale’s hip as he sank all the way in, filling Aziraphale in a way Aziraphale had never felt before. Like he was heavy with fullness, grounded. Like he was greater than himself. 

Then all rational thought fled as Crowley began to move in earnest, pulling out just enough and thrusting in, pulling out and thrusting in, until he built a rhythm that drove Aziraphale by increments to the brink of a very large cliff, one he couldn’t wait to fly off.

“Talk to me,” Crowley grunted as he thrust in the farthest he had yet. “Tell me how it feels.”

Aziraphale rolled his hips back as far as he could, encouraging Crowley deeper, whispering in broken phrases how good Crowley felt, how right, how thick and strong and perfect, how he desperately wanted to feel Crowley’s spend inside him, to be full with it, to take it again and again…

And then Crowley paused long enough to reach around Aziraphale’s hip and grasp his cock, milking the already achingly hard shaft to a fever pitch. Then stopping mid-stroke and holding.

“Thrust into my hand, then back onto my cock,” he instructed. “I want you to feel me completely surrounding you. I want you to come, shouting my name.”

Aziraphale gasped, nearly coming from the words alone. Then he did as Crowley instructed, thrusting forward into Crowley’s fist. His cock, which was ragingly hard already, was almost too sensitive, relaying every rasp of friction to his overstimulated brain. But then he pulled back, straight onto Crowley’s thick cock, his entrance stretching further as he slid up the shaft to the base. The sensations here were overwhelming as well. So he thrust forward again into Crowley’s fist, and back onto Crowley’s cock, his own shaft leaking profusely by this point. Until finally, the heat that had been building in his belly took over his senses completely, and he thrust and pulled back with increasing rapidity.

“Th-that’s it, angel,” Crowley said breathily. “Fuck me as I fuck you.”

And then mid thrust, Aziraphale’s orgasm overcame him completely. His back arched, his seed spilled all over the chaise, and he yelled Crowley’s name to the rafters, as the euphoria crashed over him and washed every thought but _Crowley_ away.

Then he might well have collapsed boneless to the chaise but for Crowley’s hands on his hips and his cock in Aziraphale’s arse. Crowley wiggled his hips experimentally, and Aziraphale groaned with pleasure.

“Yes, darling,” he said, nearly slurring. “Please seek your release. You have taken such great care of me.” Then he clenched around Crowley’s cock for emphasis, cherishing the hiss he managed to drag out of the count at doing so.

“I want to come inside you,” Crowley said his tone dark with lust. “Is that...alright?”

“Yes, yes, please, Crowley.”

“I want you to say it,” he said, thrusting harder now in short, sharp bursts.

“I want your spend inside me, filling me, washing me with your scent, claiming me completely,”

And then Crowley’s hips stuttered to a stop on the deepest thrust yet, and he breathed out Aziraphale’s name on a long sibilant hiss as his cock pulsed deep inside Aziraphale.

Aziraphale imagined it vividly through his own ache and satiety, Crowley’s white come spilling into him, filling the cracks and crevices, the damage left behind by loneliness, making him new.

Then all too soon, Crowley was pulling out, leaving a sticky trail of their lovemaking down Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale had no idea what to expect next, perhaps awkwardness or a perfunctory well done and a handshake or even an offer of more alcohol and a subject change. These were his past experiences, and he dreaded them now.

But Crowley did none of those things. Instead, he carefully guided Aziraphale onto his side, cleaning them both up as much as possible with his shirt, and then repositioning himself full length on the chaise next to Aziraphale, drawing him close in his arms and kissing him on the brow.

“Alright, angel?” he said softly into Aziraphale’s damp curls.

“So much more than alright,” Aziraphale answered around the lump in his throat.

Then Crowley hugged him closer and settled in, as if he had no plans on leaving for the rest of the night.

* * *

Aziraphale woke from a light, dreamless doze, overly warm and more content than he remembered being in his entire life. He felt deliciously sore in all the best ways and cramped from sleeping in one position for too long. He nestled further into the arms holding him fast, breathed in the heady mix of forest loam and sex and fire, and sighed more happily than any one person had a right in being.

“Mmmph, angel,” Crowley said sleepily. “Stop wiggling.”

“Can’t help it. You are too delectable to allow an inch of air between us.”

“Well, you’re going to end up with more than you bargained for if you don’t stop,” Crowley said around a yawn.

“How do you know what I’ve bargained for? I could have bargained for lots of things and just not told you yet.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Crowley said with an adoring smile. “Very well, then, what did you bargain for? I hope it’s for more of the same.”

“I had a few other ideas in mind,” Aziraphale said. “A kiss for starters.”

He leaned in then and took possession of the count’s mouth, feeding all his lascivious thoughts into the act. At which point his hands decided to get involved, thumbing and rubbing and squeezing nipples, hips, and buttocks.

“Then I thought I should like to feel the weight of your cock on my tongue,” Aziraphale continued, picking up the thread of conversation as if he’d never left off.

Crowley gasped. Aziraphale brushed his hand over Crowley’s cock, which had already hardened significantly. 

“Would you like that, my dear?” 

“I would like that very much,” Crowley said, his back arching into Aziraphale’s touch. 

So Aziraphale scooted down the chaise enough to drape himself over Crowley’s thigh. Then holding the base of Crowley’s cock, he licked a stripe of pre-cum off the underside before swirling his tongue languidly around the head. Then he sealed his mouth around his beautiful cock and sucked. 

Crowley hissed and swore his way through the entire affair, and with every sound from Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale’s own cock grew stiffer and more sensitive until he could barely resist touching himself.

“Go ahead,” Crowley said, as if reading Aziraphale’s mind. “I want you to touch yourself. I want to watch.”

Aziraphale groaned under a renewed wave of lust so powerful that it rendered him insensible. He wrapped his hand around his own cock, wet with pre-cum, and found a rhythm that suited both himself and his partner. 

_His partner_ . It still rushed upon him in waves. He was doing this. He was doing this _with Crowley_. The handsomest, most desirable man Aziraphale had ever known. And he had not a whit of reserve about it. Not even the smallest amount of doubt or concern or worry that he would regret it. He knew no matter what happened after this night, nothing could make him wish to undo any bit of what had happened in this room.

“Angel, angel, angel, I’m close, I’m close, you must…”

Aziraphale anticipated Crowley’s intent and shook his head slightly. Crowley looked wrecked with desire, naked and glistening with sweat. Aziraphale wanted to watch him come, wanted to be a part of his undoing all the way through to the end. He wanted Crowley’s spend inside of him, no matter how it entered his body.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried out as he came in pulses, filling Aziraphale’s mouth and dribbling through his lips before he could swallow all of it down. He did manage most of it, though, and what was left on his chin, he licked off a finger, watching Crowley watch him do it. Then he crawled back up to lay nearer his love.

Crowley mumbled a string of meaningless consonants, wrapping Aziraphale in his arms again.

“I take it that you liked it then?” Aziraphale said smugly.

“Rather,” Crowley agreed. “But there is one thing I’d still like to do.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“This solid staff poking my hip needs attending, and I should very much like to service it myself.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned from smug to delighted. “I would hardly deny you, my love, anything which is within my power to give. Please, do with me as you will.”

And Crowley did, warm fingers like a gentle vise, stroking Aziraphale to climax. It took mere moments, for he’d already been so close. But when it washed over him, and lifted him up, he cried out in exultation.

“I’ve got you, angel,” Crowley said, kissing Aziraphale’s eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. “I will always buffer your fall back from Heaven. I will always want you. I will always be here. Always.”

Aziraphale sighed, debating in his afterglow about whether to slip back into sleep or to spend as much waking time with Crowley as Crowley would allow. 

“The dawn is breaking,” Crowley said gently, kissing him towards wakefulness. “The servants will be up soon.”

“Must we go anywhere, darling?” Aziraphale asked with only a hint of pout. “I would much rather stay here.”

Crowley chuckled low in his chest. “With no breakfast?”

Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled in protest at the mere idea. “I suppose you are right, my love. I at least need tea after last night’s calisthenics.”

Crowley chuckled again and slapped Aziraphale’s thigh. “I admit I have a vested interest. I love watching you eat. It’s like you’re tempting me to devour you with each lascivious moan of delight.”

Aziraphale snorted as if in amusement, but really his heart had stumbled to the edge of a familiar quagmire of insecurity. Gabriel had left him for becoming too soft with age and indulgence. Crowley might find it adorable now, but how long until the blush of novelty had worn off?

“You are the softest person I have ever met.”

Aziraphale felt himself stiffen, head to foot, at the awful word on Crowley’s lips, and suddenly the idea of being naked in front of Crowley was completely untenable. He was hot and cold all over, and he wanted nothing more than to get away before Crowley could say anything else to break his heart.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was positioned on the inside of the chaise, pressed against the back of it. He’d have to clamber over Crowley to get up. He was loath to allow his body to touch Crowley anywhere at the moment, but there was nothing for it. He levered himself up as high as he could with both hands and scrambled inelegantly over Crowley’s limbs and to the edge. He planted both feet on the soft rug and stood up, wrapping the fur blanket around him and leaving Crowley bare to the wind. 

“Where are you going?” Crowley asked, bemused. 

“You said the servants will be up,” Aziraphale reminded him, avoiding looking at the gorgeous man he’d just had hours of mind-blowing sex with as he hunted for what remained of his clothes.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley demanded, getting up himself now and coming over to Aziraphale. 

But Aziraphale could not be open with him, not now. He’d experienced this before, and he didn’t want it to end that way. Maybe it could end with time and distance, but not with pain. If it were anyone else, Aziraphale might have been tempted to a temporary assignation based on the sex alone, but not here. Not with him. The man already had too much power to break his heart.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale said, trying—and failing—to sound normal.

“Something is definitely wrong,” Crowley insisted. “You’re shutting me out. I can feel it.”

“I just…I… It’s…”

“Tell me,” Crowley said, his expression turning bleak. “Whatever it is. I will not be angry if you wish to leave. But I want to know why.”

“I don’t… I don’t wish to leave, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling. “But you said…”

“What drivel have I said that has upset you?”

Blast it all, the last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was explain his history with Gabriel to Crowley, but he couldn’t have Crowley believing himself to be at fault.

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s…Gabriel.”

“ _Gabriel_?” Crowley said, and for a moment, his expression turned darker and more foreboding than Aziraphale had ever seen it.

“Gabriel and I were lovers,” Aziraphale admitted. 

“What?”

“It was years ago now,” Aziraphale continued. “Our relationship is purely professional. I would never choose to be with him again. It ended…badly.”

“What do you mean it ended badly? What—specifically—does _badly_ mean?”

“Nothing terrifically scandalous, just upsetting.” Aziraphale sighed heavily. He hated this. He hated that he was ruining everything. “I thought myself in love, I really did. But I was blind to his pettiness and casual cruelty. Partly, he manipulated me into that blindness, isolated me from my friends and colleagues by moving me to another bloody continent. But I bought into his worldview with himself at the center. I didn’t have to, but I did.”

“That was not your fault, angel,” Crowley said, reaching out a hand but not quite touching, as if afraid Aziraphale might bolt through the door and down the hall in nothing but a blanket. “Men like him are experts at twisting reality for soft hearts like yours.”

Aziraphale blanched at the word _soft_. “Please stop calling me that.”

Crowley looked wounded again. “I thought you liked it when I called you angel?”

“Not… Soft, I meant _soft_. Don’t call me… It’s what he called me, at the end. He told me that he couldn’t love me, because I was too…” Aziraphale left the thought unfinished. He’d said enough.

With a wordless cry, Crowley snatched Aziraphale in an embrace, grabbing a fistful of the fur blanket and wrenching it away. He tossed it as far across the room as he could. Then he cradled Aziraphale’s face in his palms, staring deeply into his eyes so that Aziraphale was mesmerized and couldn’t look away.

“Hear me, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I am not Gabriel. I am not even _close_ , I am not even in the same _hemisphere_ , as Gabriel. I love your body, your mind, _you_ , just as you are. And when I say _soft_ , I mean that as the highest compliment I am capable of making. I mean that you are the most perfect, precious, beautiful creature I’ve ever beheld in my exceptionally long life. I mean that your body delights me, that I want to bury myself in it, that I want to explore every inch of it and make it mine. When I say I love to watch you eat, it means that you are the paragon of loveliness when you savor each bite, and I want to both live and die in each moment forever. If you would let me, I would eviscerate Gabriel for ever laying his contemptible fingers on you, let alone for insulting all the parts of you that I adore. I cannot express this strongly enough, angel. Do you understand?”

But Aziraphale could barely think through the waves of affection and awe and desire that were assailing him and seemed, somehow, to be emanating from Crowley. Still, he nodded. It seemed like the thing to do.

Then Crowley’s lips were pressing against his, and Aziraphale lost himself to the aether of passion once again.

Finally, after another half hour of breathtaking lovemaking, a knock sounded at the door, and Hastur’s voice crept through the wood.

“Breakfast is served,” he said, in monotone.

Aziraphale hid his face in Crowley’s chest, swallowing a bashful giggle. He felt like a schoolboy being caught out for breaking the rules.

“We really must go now, mustn’t we?” Aziraphale said, regretfully. “If I could, I would stay here all day.”

“Just the day, angel? I would stay here the rest of my life.”

Aziraphale grinned at Crowley with undisguised joy. “Then I would as well,” he said. “There’s no point being out there if you’re in here.”

Crowley snorted and threw a pillow at him. “Come on, angel. Before all the good food’s gone.”

They dressed and left the room separately, mostly because Aziraphale couldn’t trust himself not to give everything away the second they were seen together. But also because Aziraphale needed to return to his room for new clothes. The majority of his shirt buttons had ripped off when Crowley disrobed him. And his trousers had a suspicious looking stain in a most inconvenient place.

By the time he’d reached his room, redressed himself, and returned to the dining room, there wasn’t much left on the sideboard. Luckily, Crowley had saved him a plate of all his favorites.

“You didn’t think I would let you starve, did you?” Crowley said, though his eyes said so much more.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, though _my love_ hovered on his tongue and in his heart.

Aziraphale ate, then. And mindful of what Crowley had told him earlier, he made every bite count. If Crowley was watching him, then he would get a show indeed. Aziraphale moaned frequently over the best bites in each dish, fluttering his eyes closed, and declaring things scrumptious with the most lascivious undertone he could manage.

No one else in the room was paying him any attention at all, but Crowley knew exactly what he was doing and was glaring heatedly at him as he shifted constantly in his chair.

“I’m sorry, dear, is something wrong with your cushion? You seem to be uncomfortable.”

“Angel,” Crowley growled warningly, but it was a threat without teeth. Aziraphale could see that Crowley was enjoying the torment as much as Aziraphale enjoyed supplying it.

When his plate was clean, he turned a self-satisfied smirk on Crowley, then excused himself to the company. 

Gabriel had decreed that there would be rehearsal after lunch, with Anathema stepping in as the female lead, and that everyone had better bring their best renditions to their parts this afternoon or there would be Hell to pay. He’d said it with considerably more deference and respect, however, and without looking at Aziraphale at all, so Crowley didn’t correct him. 

In any case, Aziraphale very much wanted to clean himself up more before he engaged with people in earnest. He was desperate for a bath, and he wouldn’t mind returning to his book for an hour either. Besides which, he feared that if he lingered for much longer in the vicinity of one particular count of the realm, that he might just hang propriety and beg the man to take him on the dining room table, witnesses be damned.

So he left, feeling Crowley’s eyes boring into him with every step he took until he’d quit the dining room entirely. And when he climbed the stairs, he found he missed it…he missed _him_. How ridiculous. He’d only been in the man’s presence for the last thirteen hours. How could he miss him already? But he did. 

So he distracted himself with a bath and a book for the better part of an hour. And, oddly enough, it worked. The journal, as he’d expected, had been on the brink of a revelation. The author described in detail her experience of pregnancy and how her lover showered her with gifts and adulation. Aziraphale found himself rooting for them the way he rarely did in books anymore. He’d given up on love. But now that he’d found it again, he wished everyone a happy ending in hopes that his would be one as well.

Sadly, it was not to be. The poor young woman, barely seventeen, gave birth to her daughter in a snowstorm. Something about the account sounded familiar, niggling at the back of his mind. But he ignored it, so focused was he on the narrative. It sounded as if it had been a difficult birth, and the woman’s brother had been called away on a matter of duty to the crown. She had the servants, of course, to aid her, but her lover could not get to her through the storm.

She battled through the delivery, bringing a healthy baby girl into the world. She wasn’t sure at first what to name the little one, and she wouldn’t settle on anything until she’d conferred with the baby’s father. So when she talked of her child in her account, she called her _Moarte Mică_ , or Small Death, after her codename for the baby’s father. Once or twice, she called the babe _Bane_ when she was being particularly fussy. Yet despite the cynical pet names, it was clear how much the young woman loved both her baby and her intended. 

Aziraphale bookmarked the page and set the book aside for long enough to emerge from the tub, skin puckered from the now lukewarm water. He dried himself off and dressed quickly. He had read the morning away, and having finished breakfast late, it was already time for luncheon.

He made his way downstairs to the dining room, but was waylaid before getting there, pulled into a side corridor by an agitated Newt.

“Why, yes, dear,” Aziraphale quipped acerbically. “I would be happy to speak to you in private.”

“Sorry,” Newt said, his eyes darting around the hall suspiciously.

“Is something amiss?” Aziraphale said, suddenly feeling a bit nervous himself. Did Newt know something about Gabriel’s involvement in Mary’s death? Or someone else’s? “What is it, dear boy? You can tell me.”

“What kind of man is Crowley?” Newt asked, surprising the wits out of Aziraphale.

“What do you mean? In what context are you asking?”

“I mean, what kind of uncle is he?”

Aziraphale stared at Newt for a long moment before bursting out laughing, hearing how ridiculous his own query had sounded now that it was coming out of someone else’s mouth.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale said, waving him off as he wiped his eyes. “Just a private joke. He’s a fine uncle. A legitimate uncle. I believe Anathema’s mother was his sister.”

Newt gave him a confused look. “I know that. She told me as much. No, I mean, is he nice to her?”

“I believe so,” Aziraphale said. “Why do you ask?”

“I just think… I think she’s scared of him and won’t say.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, nodding sagely. “I wouldn’t worry about it, dear. Though his manner can be gruff at times, he is fair and kind, even generous, though he’d deny it.”

“But they had a big argument yesterday. She won’t tell me what it was about, but it’s still bothering her.”

“I know of it.” Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on Newt’s shoulder. “But it is not what you think. If anything, I believe Anathema is afraid _for_ Crowley, not afraid of him. Does that help?”

Newt took this in for a moment before nodding. Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at him, and then led him out of the corridor.

“And now I have a question for you, young Newt,” Aziraphale said with mischief in his heart. “What kind of _friend_ are you?”

Newt spluttered and turned red, which was entirely Aziraphale’s intention. If he was cursed to be atrociously smitten with the count, then he was grateful that he at least was not alone in his madness.

Lunch was a subdued affair. Whispers about Mary’s death still floated through the room, though now there was an undercurrent of fear about it that had been notably lacking before. A fear that tasted of the supernatural, the unseen. The weather outside the castle wasn’t helping matters. The clouds had descended quite low, blanketing everything in a thick fog that smelled of ice. Crowley had been right about the autumn turning early to winter. 

Speaking of Crowley, he was absent again. But so were Sandalphon and Uriel and a few others. It was early yet, and Aziraphale hoped to finish the journal before rehearsals, so he didn’t linger. He procured the journal from his room and decided to finish it in the library in which he’d found it. It seemed fitting to do so, and anyway, he’d have to leave it on the desk when he’d finished.

So comfortably arranged by the fire, the scent of frankincense in the air, Aziraphale opened the book one last time.

It started off as he’d left it, so full of life and hope and promise. Death had finally made his way through the heavy snow drifts to the castle to meet his baby daughter for the first time. He was overjoyed at first, holding their little one, their _Moarte Mică_ , and promising every treasure in the empire to them both. 

The next day, the young woman’s brother returned home and found the young man in residence. The brother and the young woman argued bitterly about the young woman’s choice. The brother reminded the young woman of her duties, of her secrets, of everything she’d kept hidden from her love. She argued she was protecting him from the truth, but her brother disagreed, calling her selfish and a coward.

Little did either know that Death was listening at the door and heard everything. When the young woman discovered her secrets had been revealed, she pleaded with her lover for his understanding and acceptance. But whatever the secrets had been—and Aziraphale was now certain that the young woman’s belief in her gift of prophecy was one of them—her lover could not abide them. He ran off through the snow back to his home in the village.

The young woman wept and raged at her brother and wrote letter after letter to her love, whose name she now wrote in her journal freely, a man named John Nutter. Sadly, nothing came of any of her letters. 

Then one day, the snow melted. For the first time since winter had set in, the young woman felt hope renew. Nutter had had a season to reconsider, to miss her, to come to terms with the eccentricities of her bloodline. He would surely come around.

So she left her baby with the nanny and a note for her brother, and went in search of her destiny. 

The journal ended with that entry. There were several blank pages left, but it was as if the author had simply ceased to be. There one day, gone the next. It was maddening. How was he to know how it all came out with Nutter? Had the man finally accepted her for who she was? Had he granted her the happily ever after she longed for?

Aziraphale flipped forward, just to confirm that there was no more story, when from the back pages slipped a folded square of paper. A letter. Brittle with age but still well preserved. It must never have seen the light of day until today.

_My dearest Moarte Mică,_

_I have gone in search of your father. If my brother is to be believed, then there is not a small amount of risk involved in this undertaking. I leave you in his capable care. He is a good man. And if I don’t return, then listen to him, for it means he was right all along._

_Know that if there is breath left in my body, I will find a way to make it home to you, no matter the cost. And if my body should perish, my soul will inhabit these very stones to keep you safe. My daughter, I love you with my whole heart. My dearest Anathema…_

_Your mother, Agnes_

Tears slid down Aziraphale’s cheeks unchecked. The shock of seeing Anathema’s name in the letter paled in comparison to the strange lethargy that had stolen over his thoughts, the frankincense heavy in the air around him. He worried with some small part of his mind that he was being poisoned by cyanide. 

But she scoffed at him. He could _feel_ her. Agnes. Just as he’d felt her when Gabriel had suggested taking down the paintings. _Her_ paintings. She had been there from the beginning. In the stones, as she’d said, and in the back of his mind, guiding him to the journal, showing him the castle, sharing her heart with him. 

And now she was communicating with him somehow. In disconnected thoughts, seemingly random emotions. Not always there, but always watching. And the strange heaviness in his mind was her, not compelling him exactly, but asking, inviting.

He stood then, for she bid him stand. He set the letter back in the book. For a moment, he felt her desire for him to throw the journal in the fireplace, but he resisted, placing it on a shelf instead.

“I will not burn it,” he said to her. “There is hurt, yes, but also love. I will not lose the love to save the pain.”

Agnes did not _agree_ so much as stop pressuring him about it. But he complied with her further directions, curious to see what she so badly wanted to show him. Would it be her third secret? The one she never wrote of in her journal?

His feet traced the route she mapped out in his mind. He found himself climbing hidden stairwells he’d never seen, traipsing down long, echoing corridors that Crowley had never taken him through. With each step, she seemed more excited but also slightly frantic, as if she wasn’t sure what how he would receive whatever it was she intended to show him.

Finally, Aziraphale rounded a corner into a hall near the top of the east wing. The windows looked out onto the craggy hillside at the back of the castle. The clouds had darkened everything to the point that Aziraphale couldn’t tell how late it was. Had he read into the early hours of evening? Or was it still just after lunch? No one had come to collect him, but neither had he told anyone where he’d gone. 

“Agnes, why am I here?” he said to the fuzziness suffusing his mind. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

_Turn around._

So he did. And gasped.

There hanging on the wall was a six-foot-tall portrait of _him_. Of Aziraphale. Wearing almost exactly what he’d worn the first day he’d met Crowley. A few of the details were off. He’d worn the cream version of his tartan tie, rather than the blue one. And the artist had rendered his features a fair amount more handsome than he actually was. He was looking over his shoulder, his expression unguarded, innocent, full of joy. And the engraved plate affixed to the bottom of the frame read—

“Angel,” Crowley said.

“She painted this,” Aziraphale said with a grief in his bones that was both his and not his. “She painted me. Didn’t she?”

Crowley swallowed audibly. “I was going to tell you.”

“No, you weren’t,” Aziraphale said. “You told her not to trust, and probably for good reason. You wouldn’t have trusted me. We only just met.”

“I would have,” Crowley said, his expression haunted. “I don’t know what you know or how you found out, but…I wasn’t right. She was. She believed in love till the end. She was right.”

“I only know what she’s shown me,” Aziraphale said. “That somehow she could…see the future. Did she paint all of these herself?”

“Yes. Painting was how she managed the gift. Or the curse, if you could call it that.”

“Do you have it? This gift?”

Crowley’s face twisted into a frown. “No. I have other talents, but not that one.”

“Did you… did you recognize me? Is that why you agreed to host the production?”

“I didn’t recognize you at first. I never understood why she had painted this in the first place, so I locked it away for many years. But then I met you, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on where I had seen you before. Until you started talking about how much you loved the castle. Your eyes lit up. You actually twirled in the hall. And then I saw it, and it all clicked into place. Your name, your smile, everything. I understood then why she painted it. It was a gift for me. That night after you left, I searched every store room until I found it. Then I had it moved here, outside my bedroom.”

“Outside your bedroom?”

“I figured it was a bit too forward to hang it inside my bedroom.”

Aziraphale could feel Agnes glowing in his mind, and it almost hurt.

“What about Anathema? Does she know?”

“About you?”

“About her mother. Her mother’s secrets.”

Crowley stilled. He seemed almost frozen in time, as if even his heartbeat had stopped, waiting for some great axe to fall.

“What secrets are you referring to exactly?”

“How did she die?” Aziraphale asked instead of answering.

“The villagers…feared her. They were barbaric back then, with nothing but superstition and religious zealotry between them and the animals they hunted.”

“How did they find out?”

“Nutter let it slip one night in a drunken confession to his priest. The village burned her as a witch.”

“Oh, my God, how awful!” Aziraphale said, some of the stupor lifting from his mind. “You poor thing,” he said, addressing his words to the ceiling.

“Who are you talking to?” Crowley asked.

“Agnes,” Aziraphale said. “She’s here.”

“In the castle?” Crowley sounded confused, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“She _is_ the castle. Don’t you remember? You told me on the first day that you didn’t think anybody owned her, and you were referring to the castle.”

“I didn’t mean it was Agnes. How do you know she is here?”

“I’ve felt her in small ways from the beginning, I think. We are connected. Or maybe she just likes me. In any case, I found her journal a few days ago and—”

“You found her journal?” Crowley said, sounding strangled.

“I did. I think she wanted me to.”

“Where is it now?”

“It’s in the library. You know, it’s odd. I could have sworn from the descriptions of dress and political events of the time that she was writing it back in the mid-sixteen hundreds. But obviously that can’t be the case if you’re her brother and Anathema is her daughter.”

Crowley coughed and looked down. “Obviously.”

“There is one thing I still wonder about, though.”

“Oh?”

“She referenced three secrets: her baby, her gift of prophecy, and one other secret that she never divulged in the journal. Do you know what the final secret was?”

The heaviness in his mind was back, bringing with it a numbing quality that left him feeling light and calm and as if everything would be alright. Which was directly the opposite of what Crowley’s face was doing. He looked as if everything was very much not alright, and that he’d rather the floor open him up and swallow him than answer the question.

“Angel, I… I have something to tell—”

Suddenly, a cacophony of screams ricocheted up the stairwells and through the castle halls, scaring Agnes away and leaving Aziraphale and Crowley staring at each other for a moment before either reacted. 

Then Crowley was off like a shot, running at speed down the hall and the stairs.

“Crowley, wait! I can’t run that fast, and I don’t know where I’m going!”

Crowley slowed a bit but not much. “Hurry up, angel. Who knows what disaster has befallen them now!”

When they finally found the source of the screaming, it was in the ballroom where the troupe had gathered for another attempt at rehearsal. But no one was at their marks. They were huddled or pacing or gibbering incoherently.

“What is going on?” Crowley said, severely.

Gabriel, who’d been standing imperiously near a wardrobe, pointed angrily at someone lying on the ground at the foot of the wardrobe. No, not someone, Sandalphon.

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale gasped, rushing forward. “Is he alright?”

“He’s dead!” Tracy said, crying into her handkerchief. Shadwell patted her awkwardly on the back. 

“Not again!” Aziraphale said, checking Sandalphon’s neck in vain for a pulse.

“This is your fault!” Gabriel said, addressing Crowley. “You brought us here. Lured us here to be slaughtered.”

“Hang on,” Aziraphale said, jumping to his feet. “None of this is Crowley’s fault. He’s not the murderer!”

“Why not? He has the motive, means, and opportunity,” Gabriel said. “He wasn’t at lunch, and neither was Sandalphon. He knows this castle, he has all the resources he needs at his disposal.”

“And what motive could he possibly have?” Aziraphale screeched.

Gabriel pointed again, this time to the two puncture wounds on Sandalphon’s neck, exact replicas of the ones on Mary’s neck.

“He’s a vampire!” he roared.

“That— That’s _absurd_ ,” Aziraphale roared back. “You can’t _possibly_ believe that vampires are real or that Crowley is one. You have gone too far this—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale stopped mid-tirade at the gentleness in his tone.

“He’s right,” Crowley continued. “I am a vampire.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I  _ am _ a vampire,” Crowley repeated into the stunned silence, as if the whole room hadn’t clearly heard him.

“No, you’re not,” Aziraphale responded, instinctively.

“I am,” Crowley insisted. “Well, not the way Stoker portrays it obviously, the hypocrite.”

“You met Stoker,” Uriel said, tone heavy with skepticism. 

“Met him? He was my cousin.”

“And he revealed your secret to the world? Why?”

“He was terrible at cards. I beat him one time too many, and he knew it would irritate me.”

“Seems likely,” Uriel said with a snort.

“You. Are not. A vampire,” Aziraphale said again. 

“I am, angel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was about to, when you asked about Agnes’s last secret. This was it. We are both—were both…”

“If this is some joke you are having at our expense, it is not terribly funny, dear. Two people are dead.”

“Three people,” said Ligur, who had just popped in from the hall.

“ _ Three _ people?” Aziraphale said, his heart sinking.

“Deirdre was just found slumped over the kitchen table. Two holes in her neck, same as the woman yesterday.”

“See?” Gabriel spat. “What more proof do you need?”

“Quite a bit more, actually!” Aziraphale snapped. “Even if he is…er…something…there’s nothing linking him to these murders.”

“There is something linking me to the murders. They all happened in my house.”

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale argued. “You were not seen near the scene of the crime, you do not have a murder weapon on your person, and if you were going to kill anyone, you’d have killed me last night when we were...” He cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, none of this makes any sense.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, angel, and you’re right that I did not kill anyone. I’ve never killed a person in my life, though I have wanted to on a number of occasions.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quellingly. “Not helping, dear.”

“Of course, he’d say he hasn’t killed anyone! He’s outnumbered,” Gabriel said.

Crowley snorted. “Yes, I’m in terrible danger, falling afoul of a troupe of wild thespians.”

“Oi,” Shadwell said. “If you’re going to eat us, you at least owe us a wee bit of respect.”

“He’s not going to eat us!” Aziraphale shouted. “He didn’t kill—  _ No vampire _ killed Mary or Sandalphon. I was with the coroner when he examined Mary’s body. He said that the marks were irrelevant, that they could not have been the cause of death. He wouldn’t say definitively before performing an autopsy, but he indicated that the most likely cause of death was poison.”

“Poison?” Michael said, scrunching her nose. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I would have. Once the coroner made a conclusive report. But you all would much rather jump to the conclusion that a vampire did it.” Aziraphale swung to face Crowley. “And  _ you _ are encouraging them for some reason. We will be talking about  _ that _ later.”

“But who would want to poison us?” Uriel asked.

“Someone who stood to profit from sabotaging the production, obviously,” Aziraphale said. “Someone, perhaps, like a producer whose funding had completely dried up and was desperate for a salacious story to drum up publicity by any means necessary.”

Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to Gabriel.

“Is that true?” Newt said, looking far more serious than usual.

“What?” Gabriel said, realizing too late the tide had turned. “I didn’t kill anyone! And I sure as Hell wouldn’t sabotage my own production!”

“You were writing about Mary’s death to a gossip columnist in Los Angeles.”

“Well, yes. I was going to use it to pressure the studio. But I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Someone must have killed them. They didn’t die on their own,” Tracy said. “Who else had a motive?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but can we focus on the wee fact that we are living  _ with a vampire _ right now?” Shadwell broke in.

“He is not a vampire!” Aziraphale shouted.

“Yes, I am!” Crowley said, practically giggling with amusement. “It’s a genetic condition.”

“So you’re saying that Anathema is a vampire too?” Aziraphale said, gesturing in annoyance at the poor young woman, who kept shooting worried looks at Newt.

“No,” Crowley said. “She’s human. It doesn’t manifest in every generation. But her children could be.”

“Crowley, that’s enough,” Anathema said. “Why are you telling them this?”

“Because he deserves to know the truth.”

“The truth? The  _ truth _ ? You forbade me from telling anyone about us. You said there would be consequences. So all of a sudden the consequences have vanished?”

“No, there are consequences. But Agnes was right. I’ve been so stupid.”

“Hello! The sheep are still in the room!” Michael said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I traveled halfway across the world for this.”

“For the last time, no one is eating anybody,” Aziraphale said.

“Could I eat a sandwich?” Shadwell asked. “Feels like lunch was bloody hours ago.”

“Not now, love,” Tracy said.

“Well, she’s gone and brought up sheep and made me hungry.”

Newt shook his head, returning one of Anathema’s worried looks. “So…you’re saying that the Count is really a vampire?”

“Vampire is a stupid word,” Anathema said. “But, well, yes. Sort of.”

Aziraphale’s own thoughts were too disjointed and overwhelmed to allow him to respond. Anathema actually  _ believed _ it. And honestly, how much of a leap was it from a castle sentient with the soul of a prophetic woman, to a vampire? In some ways, it made sense.

“Perhaps it would help if you told them your birthday,” Crowley suggested to Anathema, who chewed her lip nervously before responding.

“October twenty-eighth.”

“The year.”

Anathema’s gaze dropped to the floor, as she reluctantly answered.

“1655.”

“I’m sorry, did you say 1655?” Newt said, his eyes round as saucers.

“I thought you said she was human!” Michael protested.

“I am human,” Anathema said. Then she pulled up her sleeve to reveal the puncture wounds Aziraphale remembered seeing the first day he met her. They were not the only ones. There were several pairs of marks across her forearm. “Something in my uncle’s biology extends life for humans. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Not a predatory one.”

The room erupted into a babbling clatter as everyone started speaking at once. Aziraphale’s vision speckled, and he felt lightheaded. It was all too fast. Too many revelations. Too much tragedy.

“I’m here, angel,” Crowley rumbled low in Aziraphale’s ear. When had he moved? Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. “I should have told you last night, before we… But everything is the same. I’m still me. I still—and will always—love you.”

Aziraphale wilted against him, trusting Crowley to prop him up until the world settled back into place around him.

“Everyone, calm down!” Tracy said, her voice rising above the din. The others must have been waiting for someone to take charge, because the room quieted at her command. “It occurs to me that we still have a murderer running about. We should perhaps focus more on that and less on the undead among us.”

“But the undead is the murderer!” Gabriel said. 

Tracy gave him a withering look.

“Well, he’s at least probably the murderer,” Gabriel amended, sulking. “It makes the most sense.”

“But the facts don’t add up, do they?” she said. “Poison seems an odd choice for a vampire, when teeth are so much more convenient.”

There was a collection of squeamish mutters from the others.

“So we’re just going to  _ ignore _ the fact that there’s a vampire in the room?” Gabriel persisted.

Tracy shrugged. “I don’t see how it’s terribly relevant, really.”

“Yeah, seems alright,” Uriel said, as Michael rolled her eyes and fiddled with her camera.

“What about Sandalphon?” Gabriel gestured to the body, still laying prone where it had fallen out of the wardrobe.

As they talked, more of the house staff gathered at the entryway.

“Maybe the Count has some kind of magical ability to sniff out criminals?” Wensley said.

“Oo, that’s a thought. What are your magical abilities?” Adam chimed in.

“Like, can you fly? Because that would be wicked,” Pepper said.

Suddenly, Hastur burst into the room, straw hair greasy and unkempt, jacket askew, scratches on his cheek.

“No! What are you simpletons  _ doing _ ? He’s a vampire, can’t you see?”

“Exactly what I was saying,” Gabriel said, gesturing at Hastur as if vindicated.

“You can’t  _ accept  _ him, he’s a monster!”

“Doesn’t seem like a very good monster, if he’s never killed anyone.”

Murmurs of assent rippled throughout the room.

“Doesn’t matter if he’s killed anyone,” Hastur insisted. “He’s abnormal! An aberration! He makes a mockery of the natural order!”

“How? He has a genetic condition. Lots of people have those.”

Hastur pulled at his hair in fury.

“I didn’t kill these worthless idiots just for you lot to shrug it off!”

“Wait.”

“What did he say?”

“Oi, he said he killed them!”

Shadwell puffed out his chest. “Away wi’ you! You were too cowardly to confront ‘im yerself, so ye tried to trick us into doing it?”

“The world needs to know the truth!” Hastur shrieked, then pointed at Gabriel. “You were supposed to spread the story outside these walls! I saw your letters!”

“Well, I was going to,” Gabriel said venomously. “But I couldn’t figure out how to send mail from here. There’s not exactly a post office in easy reach, you know.”

“Why do you care so much anyway?” Brian asked. “Not like it hurts you any.”

“He’s in league with the Devil!”

“It’s a genetic disorder, man,” Michael said. “Give it a rest.”

“He has superhuman strength! Equivalent to that of twenty strong men! He is immune to conventional means of attack—a blade goes right through his body without harming him. He has hypnotic and telepathic abilities! He can vanish and reappear elsewhere at will! Who knows what else he is capable of?”

“Is all of that true?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, who was still supporting him. 

Crowley grimaced. “Mostly?”

Aziraphale laughed softly in disbelief. “And to think I was worried you might die if you cut yourself on a bit of glass.”

“I told you not to,” Crowley said, his tone as gentle as his hold.

“He is a  _ demon _ ! Sent from Hell to torment humanity!”

Tracy huffed, crossing her arms. “The only one tormenting anyone, it seems to me, is  _ you _ , you scoundrel.”

“If he wanted to, he could kill everyone in this room in the blink of an eye,” Hastur snarled. “He could kill everyone in this _ town  _ that fast!”

“He doesn’t really seem like the murderous rampaging type,” Uriel said. “Gabriel’s got a worse temper than him. Heaven’s sake, even  _ I _ have a worse temper. Ever think he might be the good guy in this scenario?”

“Fine! If you won’t rid the world of his vile impurity…” Hastur threw off his jacket, revealing three glass vials stoppered and strapped to his chest. “Then I will!”

Hastur threw himself at Crowley and Aziraphale, but Crowley, naturally, moved faster. He whirled around, Aziraphale clutched in his arms, and took the brunt of Hastur’s attack. The sound of the vials shattering echoed for what seemed like an eternity. Aziraphale experienced the strangest sensation, as if time were stretched like taffy, everything in slow motion. The scent of almonds filled his nostrils by slow degrees, taking long enough for Aziraphale to be able to recognize it and panic that his life was about to end, lamenting that he’d only spent one night in Crowley’s arms.

Time returned to normal like a bubble bursting. Wind whipped through the room in a maelstrom, a banshee screech hammering at Aziraphale’s ears. Crowley was nowhere and everywhere. Aziraphale could feel him like he’d felt Agnes earlier. The others in the room had collapsed, holding their mouths and noses or covering their heads altogether. Pepper and Shadwell, who’d been closest to Hastur when he’d attacked Crowley, both lay insensate on the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelled through the tearing wind.

Then as suddenly as the wind had started, it stopped. At the absence of resistance, Aziraphale stumbled forward, bumping into Anathema where she huddled near the floor. 

“Anathema, are you alright?”

Her hands shaking, her hair in shambles, Anathema uncovered her head and blinked up at him.

“Are we still alive?”

“It would appear so, my dear,” he said, helping her up.

The others started checking limbs, and shaking off the effects of the buffeting wind. One person was missing, however.

“Where’s Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, heart pounding.

“That’s impossible!” Hastur spat as he came to his senses. “There was enough cyanide in those vials to send us all to kingdom come!”

He started to rise, but Newt, Shadwell, Warlock, and Pepper tackled him back to the floor. The sound of the main castle doors being flung open echoed through the ballroom, and Ligur came striding in, leading at least a dozen law enforcement officers.

“Arrest this man!” Tracy yelled at them, pointing to a struggling Hastur. “He’s admitted the murder of three people, and then tried to kill us all!”

The police drew their weapons at once, and Newt and Pepper withdrew, leaving only Shadwell and Warlock pinioning the criminal in place. But Aziraphale could not have cared less in that moment. He had to find Crowley. He feared something was desperately wrong.

“Where is Crowley?” Aziraphale asked Anathema again, seizing her arm to gain her attention. “Where is he?”

“I-I don’t know! He’s never done that before, I—”

“Think, dear girl! Where would he go if he were injured, if he needed help?”

Anathema shook her head as if to clear it. They’d all suffered a shock, to be sure, but Aziraphale needed her to  _ think _ .

“I think he might…go to ground.”

“Ground?”

“He needs territorial soil, his territory, to rejuvenate. Any time he overextends, he goes there.”

“Where?”

“Unhallowed ground. The mausoleum.”

Aziraphale started off at once for the doors leading to the veranda. 

“Wait!” shouted a police officer. “No one is permitted to leave!”

But Aziraphale ignored him, and was through the veranda doors almost as quickly as Crowley would have been.

Outside, the winds were howling. Snow and ice plummeted from the sky like lead bullets, but Aziraphale barely felt them. He had no coat or boots, but he hardly felt the chill. All he could think about was getting to Crowley. And though he had no idea where the mausoleum was, he knew his feet would carry him there. Either Agnes would guide him or his own innate magnet would pull him to its pole. Whichever it was, Crowley would be there, and Aziraphale would save  _ him _ this time.

Minutes later, a graveyard appeared. It didn’t look particularly unhallowed, but it did look old, with crumbling headstones where names had rubbed away. Aziraphale hurried through the blackened gate and towards the only structure in view—a small stone building wreathed in columns. He scrambled up the steps and through the gaping doorway, not knowing what to expect, but only caring about one thing. He knew somehow that Crowley was inside. He could feel it in his blood.

Inside, the building was empty but for a large, coffin-sized hole in the center. Aziraphale stumbled to the floor in his haste, peering over the edge. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out as he took in the wan figure laying in the plush-lined open coffin, dark glasses gone, clothes torn, staring up at the sky as if dead. “Don’t you dare!”

Without a thought, Aziraphale climbed in next to him. 

“Don’t you dare leave me, not now!”

But Crowley wouldn’t stir. 

“Blast it, wake up!”

What was it Anathema had said? A symbiotic relationship?

Aziraphale unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up away from his wrist. But having no cutting implements on his person, he had to make do with Crowley’s teeth.

“Crowley, please, please don’t be dead. Or gone, rather. You’re probably already dead. Oh, bother.”

He sawed his wrist against Crowley’s teeth, but nothing happened. So he leaned down and kissed Crowley full on the lips, pressing his bottom lip hard against Crowley’s upper canine. The thinner skin nicked slightly and a drop of blood leaked onto Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale pulled back in time to see Crowley’s canine teeth lengthen into tiny knives, and with a shout of triumph, Aziraphale jabbed his wrist onto Crowley’s tooth. It hurt, but only for a split second, and then the blood pooled into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley swallowed reflexively, still glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

“Come on, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, shifting his body to lie more to the side, hooking a leg between Crowley’s, so that he could move the hand that had been supporting his own weight to press blood faster from his forearm.

Crowley swallowed again, and then finally began to stir. His eyes fluttered shut as he swallowed again, and then flew open, awareness returning all at once. He stared at Aziraphale in shocked recognition, before a shudder shook him, and he grasped Aziraphale’s wrist in his own hand, sealing his mouth around the cut on Aziraphale’s skin and sucking hard.

Aziraphale gasped at the ecstasy that washed through him in waves. He hadn’t expected that. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he moaned, gripping the edge of the coffin with his free hand. 

_ Angel _ , he heard in his mind.  _ You came for me. _

_ Of course, my love. Don’t be daft. _

Crowley growl-laughed in his mind, and the vibration of it sent ripples of a different kind of ecstasy crisscrossing the first set. The sensation was almost too much.

_ If you must stay, then I will stay, _ Aziraphale thought at Crowley with all his might.  _ I will never again be where you are not. _

_ If you must go, then I will go _ , Crowley thought back at him with equal fervor.  _ I will never again live in a time when you are not _ .

And there, sealed with blood, in the depths of a grave, Aziraphale could have sworn he heard church organs and angels singing and the incandescence of a young woman’s laugh. 

After what was surely only a few minutes but felt like entire revolutions of the sun, Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s wrist away from his mouth. He licked the traces of blood still remaining on his lips like Aziraphale might lick treacle from his own. Then he kissed up Aziraphale’s forearm for as long as Aziraphale’s sleeve would let him.

“I need you,” Crowley said, lapping briefly at Aziraphale’s wound until it sealed itself before his eyes. 

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed as he took Crowley’s face in his hands. “I am yours.”

Then he kissed him on the lips again, lengthened canines and all, until he felt teeth retract and tongue push into his mouth. He moaned at the intrusion. He would not last long, not with the euphoria still overloading his senses. His trousers were already too tight, and they tightened further when Crowley gripped his arse, pulling his pelvis into Crowley’s erection.

“Are you quite well enough for this, my darling?” Aziraphale asked as he nuzzled Crowley’s tattoo. “You were almost dead not half a minute ago.”

Crowley laughed. “Will you stop worrying about me? I am stronger than twenty men, remember?”

“And you used almost all of that strength saving us from the cyanide. Which, by the way, how did you accomplish that?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. Chalk it up to vampire magic.”

Then Crowley slid his hand between them and into Aziraphale’s trousers.

Aziraphale tilted his head and his hips forward as he ground himself into the touch, gasping. After a few minutes of caressing Aziraphale’s hardened shaft, Crowley shifted out from under Aziraphale so they were laying facing each other.

“I want every tomorrow with you, angel. Can I have that?”

“That and more, my love,” Aziraphale breathed as Crowley worked to maneuver their trousers open.

Aziraphale unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt, fingers fumbling in the extremity of emotion and constriction of space. Finally, he’d opened enough of the shirt to attack Crowley’s collarbone with kisses. He teased the skin with his teeth and caused Crowley to gasp, which only made him desperate to elicit the sound again.

“Roll over,” Crowley commanded, and Aziraphale did eagerly. Crowley managed to rid Aziraphale of his trousers entirely as he shifted over. Then there was a vast amount of unbearable movement behind him as Crowley climbed out of his own trousers. And at last Crowley’s nimble fingers were breaching Aziraphale’s cleft, searching the crease for Aziraphale’s entrance. 

“This may be a little rough at first. Tell me if it’s too much,” Crowley said, his voice tight.

“I can’t imagine it being anything other than exactly what I want, but I will.”

Crowley grunted, running his tongue along the edge of Aziraphale’s ear, as he pressed a long finger into Aziraphale’s entrance. 

Aziraphale gasped and wriggled down further towards the stretch. He wanted more. So much more. 

“Please, Crowley, hurry. I need…I need…”

“What do you need, angel?”

“I need you inside me.”

“I’m getting there, angel, patience.”

Then he brushed his finger against the bundle of nerves that made Aziraphale see stars.

“Ohh!” he cried out, nearly knocking his head into the side of the velvet-lined coffin. “Crowley!”

“God, angel, you’re so beautiful. I can’t get enough of you…”

He entered Aziraphale with a second finger, brushing in tandem with the first. 

Aziraphale keened at the contact, the pressure, the tidal wave building inside him. The ecstasy that hadn’t abated from before crescendoed still further, taking him to new heights. And yet there was still distance to go. He wouldn’t come without Crowley inside him, joined with him in unconsecrated consummation of their vows.

“Crowley, I’m close. Please hurry.”

Another brush of fingers that nearly undid Aziraphale, and then the fingers withdrew, replaced almost at once with the hot tip of Crowley’s cock.

“Ahh!” Aziraphale cried out in exultation as Crowley entered him, slowly at first, painfully slowly, and the ache was exquisite.

“Okay, angel?” Crowley huffed in his ear, clearly near climax himself, if his trembling was any indication.

“Yes! More, Crowley,  _ please _ ...”

Slowly, so painfully slowly, Crowley slid himself all the way in. Aziraphale had never felt so full and overflowing with emotion. He wanted Crowley to move and at the same time to never move again. He couldn’t stand the thought of it ending.

But move, Crowley did. Slowly at first. Then building up speed as he thrust deeper and deeper into Aziraphale.

With each thrust, Aziraphale gasped at the burn and shifted slightly until Crowley’s thrusts brushed the nerves inside him again. Once, twice, and then he was coming untouched, shouting Crowley’s name to the earth, to the snow, to the night sky. Then he shook, tears spilling down his cheeks, as the building ecstasy finally crashed underneath and around him, flooding his senses anew. 

“I’ve got you, angel,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s neck, buried inside him but stilling so he could hold Aziraphale through his orgasm.

“Don’t you dare s-stop,” Aziraphale said once he was capable of speech again. “I want you to come inside me.”

Crowley shivered. “You don’t know what it does to me, hearing you say things like that.”

“Then show me.”

So Crowley shifted again, rolling Aziraphale more onto his front so that his nose pressed into the red silken pillow that smelled so much like the man he loved. Crowley spread Aziraphale’s knees further apart, then grasped his hips and thrust in hard and fast. Then out again and in. Aziraphale was half-hard again already at the renewed contact. Something about Crowley’s bite must have strengthened his own stamina. 

Crowley pulled almost all the way out and then thrust in again, even farther and faster than the time before. He quickly built a punishing rhythm that had Aziraphale fully erect again before Crowley’s hips began to stutter out of rhythm. 

“Oh, God, angel, you’re everything, you’re all I’ve ever…more than I…”

Aziraphale shifted his arm enough to grasp his own cock and pump it to every lengthening thrust of Crowley’s until Crowley cried out and pulsed his release deep into Aziraphale. The sensation was enough to send Aziraphale over the edge into his own orgasm a second time. 

As both of them shuddered through the aftermath, they held onto each other desperately, as if they couldn’t get close enough. Both whispered frantic  _ I love yous _ into each other’s skin as they kissed everywhere they could reach.

The coffin smelled so much of their lovemaking that Aziraphale’s cock twitched again in interest. Good lord, if all it took was a little blood to intensify sex to this level, then Aziraphale was all for it. He mentioned as much to Crowley, who chuckled possessively and kissed Aziraphale right over his jugular.

“Just you wait, angel. We’ve only barely scratched the surface.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes once again. “I am insatiable for you.” 

“And I, you, angel,” Crowley answered, kissing each of Aziraphale’s wrists and then his lips again.

After a brief respite, their touches grew more heated, their kisses, more demanding, until another bout of sex became inevitable. This time Aziraphale straddled Crowley’s hips, digging his fingers into the dirt walls around them for support and as a release valve for the pressure expanding in his abdomen, his chest, between his thighs and temples, until he felt as large and wide as the cosmos around them. Crowley thrust up into him as Aziraphale pushed down, over and over, until like a dam bursting, Aziraphale came all over Crowley’s chest. 

“Darling, darling,” Aziraphale heard himself whimper over and over as Crowley flipped them again, positioning Aziraphale face up, one leg propped up against Crowley’s shoulder as he entered Aziraphale once again. 

“My angel,” Crowley said, as he withdrew and thrust in, pulled back and pushed in repeatedly, until he came in a great flood, filling Aziraphale with his spend. 

For his part, Aziraphale stared up at Crowley in wonder. How could a man already so incredibly beautiful become even more stunning during orgasm? Such a thing had to be supernatural. Why hadn’t Aziraphale seen the truth before? 

Breathing hard, Crowley pulled out of Aziraphale and collapsed on top of him.

Aziraphale laughed fondly. “Were you not at death’s door, not an hour ago? We’ve gone three rounds.”

“I have only gone two rounds,” Crowley corrected, holding up two fingers. “You have gone three.”

Aziraphale laughed again. “Have you got another one in you, then? Because I am very amenable.”

“Mhm, yes … but in bed.”

“I see.” 

Crowley kissed him then. Long and slow and thoroughly. 

“And where is this bed you speak of?”

“Through a hall with a painting of an angel in it.”

“And what does this bed have that our lovely coffin does not?”

“It’s bigger.”

“Ah, well, then lead the way, my dear.”

So Crowely did, out of the mausoleum and up a back stair so that nobody saw them but a centuries-old castle with joy in her heart.

* * *

_ Four months later _

“Are you sure you want to go all the way to America?” Crowley asked for the fifteenth time.

He, Aziraphale, Newt, and Anathema were standing in the hall after a hurried breakfast while Ligur took the last of her suitcases out to the Bentley.

“Yes, uncle, I’m sure,” Anathema answered, pinning her hat in place. “I can get better roles in LA, and Newt will be there to watch out for me.”

“Yes, I’m sure all he’ll be doing is  _ watching out  _ for you.”

“Stop,” she said primly, kissing him on the cheek. “Besides, you have Aziraphale to keep you company. I hardly see you anymore as it is.”

“Do stop pestering her, dear,” Aziraphale said, his eyes watering. “It’s hard enough saying goodbye without you fussing.”

“I wasn’t fussing. I don’t fuss.”

Aziraphale took Anathema’s hand in his and drew her a little aside, as Crowley turned to chasten Newt about something or other.

“Listen, if Gabriel gets out of line, you must write us straight away. He can be needlessly cruel when he’s stressed.”

“I will, I promise. But don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I will have his production company out from under him before long. There’s a lot of talent in our little troupe. Would be a pity to waste it on an ineffectual gas bag like Gabriel.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Wonderful plan. The others will no doubt thank you for it.”

“It is too bad, though, that we’ll have to find a new location scout,” she said sobering. “When you know what the best is like, it’s hard to settle for less.”

“I’d be happy to consult from afar, dear girl. Write whenever you wish.”

“Not whenever she wishes,” Crowley interjected. “Every week. Like clockwork. Your mother will leak at all the faucets if you don’t.”

Anathema hugged Crowley in lieu of an answer, and then hugged Aziraphale as well.

“We have to go or we’ll miss our train. I love you both. Take care!”

And then she was off, Newt and the rest of the troupe with her.

Crowley frowned. “It’s going to feel so infernally quiet around here without a thousand people tramping all around in costume, eating us out of house and home.”

Aziraphale’s mind lit upon an idea and he beamed over at Crowley.

“What?” Crowley said suspiciously. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look is that, dear boy?”

“The one where I’m not going to like whatever it is that comes out of your mouth next.”

Aziraphale looped his arm through Crowley’s and led him out through the side door to the veranda overlooking the garden, still blanketed in several inches of snow but with a few violet crocuses poking through the crust.

“Now that you mention it, I did have a thought.”

“Did you, now?” Crowley said with a sardonic twist of his lips.

Aziraphale continued undeterred. “Well, since you’ve publicly embraced your genetic heritage as a vampire, it might be quite the draw to our home.”

“Hm, good point. Perhaps we should install a moat.”

“I had another idea, actually.”

“Guard wolves? Flamethrowers? A really large fence?”

“What if we opened a Gothic bed and breakfast?”

“A what?”

“I can just see it, darling. We could have a monster-of-the-week theme…”

“Angel.”

“With a murder mystery the guests can solve, but only for play of course…”

“Angel…” Crowley stopped, pulling Aziraphale around to face him.

“Oo, and we can invite the production company to come back next year for Halloween, and…”

“Angel!”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands and sealed his lips with a kiss, stopping Aziraphale’s words by stealing his breath and scattering his thoughts to the winds. But Aziraphale was not deterred. When the kiss ended, he pulled back with a smile as full as his heart.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he said, and then kissed his lover’s protests away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next Halloween for Silent is the Grave 2: Bed & Breakfast of the Damned! ;-) Seriously, though, thanks so much for joining me on this spooky, Gothic-romance adventure. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> If you did, be sure to check out MY Trickety-Boo gift exchange fic, given to me by the amazing...*drumroll*... TawnyOwl95!!! That's right! We were miraculously paired with each other by accident--a delightful, ineffable accident, if you will. Tawny's fic is called [Grave Reflections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311182), and it's about a demon and an angel having a picnic in a graveyard and remembering things long past. It's atmospheric and lovely and soft. Highly recommend!!
> 
> Also, be sure to check out Z A Dusk's 5+1 Halloween fic called [5 Times Crowley Failed to Prank Aziraphale and 1 Time He Succeeded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310585). Perfectly fluffy seasonal read that is both funny and so incredibly sweet that the ending had me in tears! 
> 
> And after you've finished with those, check out the entirety of the [Trickety-Boo! Exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TricketyBoo2020Exchange/works) collection for more out-of-this-world Halloween magic, both fic and art! So much incredible talent in this fandom--it amazes me every time I participate in one of these events.
> 
> Enjoy, and happy Halloween!!!


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